Redemption
by neonchica
Summary: Death was always an option. This - this was not. Dean has been rendered permanantly disabled by an enemy. Now, quadriplegic & vent-dependent, Dean and Sam must work hard to overcome their new obstacles and learn to accept this new definition of living.
1. Chapter 1

**Redemption 1/8 (part 1 of a 3 part arc)**

**Author: Neonchica (with assistance by co-author Betzz).**

**Summary: _Death was always an option. This - this was not. Dean has been rendered permanantly disabled by one of his enemies. Now, quadriplegic and ventilator dependant, Dean and Sam must work hard to overcome these new obstacles and learn to accept this new definition of living._**

**This is an AU version of an older piece, Retribution. Chapter 1 is merely a rewrite of the end of Retribution in order to set the scene and "remove" the possibility of recovery. To really know what happened earlier, you will need to read Retribution.**

**Author's Note: I had no intentions of going back and revisiting Retribution. I was happy with how it ended, and really never planned on exploring the alternatives. However, with the gentle proddings of a fellow author and friend, Betzz, she convinced me to pick this up again, and reexamine the situation under the question of "what would happen if Dean's spinal cord had been severed in that showdown? What turns would their lives take and what would stay the same?" She offered to write the story with me, and together we formulated a plan that ultimately turned into a mini-series. Since this was mostly her baby at that point, I let her choose the injury level and the subsequent effects of the injury, rendering Dean a C2 quadriplegic with absolutely no movement from the neck down. The goal was to see how much emotion and personality we could convey with just his facial expressions. Unfortunately, she had to drop back before the completion for personal reasons, but I decided to tweak and add until the story was complete. Hope you enjoy!**

**Author's Note 2: So the plan is to also post this to livejournal (see link in my profile). However, I was just over there trying to get things set up and what ultimately posted is a MESS! The font is too big, my italics and quotations marks and page positioning is non-existent, and it posted all this mess halfway through with pictures then gave me some obscure message about [Error: Irreparable invalid markup ('iand') in entry. Owner must fix manually. Raw contents below.] that I have no idea how to fix (let alone understand). So bear with me and keep refreshing that screen until the pics post. If any of you has thoughts on how to help...that would be AWESOME! Because me and html - yeah, we've never met. I want to know how all of you make your pretty little LJ's... *pouts*  
**

**Recap: Just a quick summary to catch up those of you who choose not to read Retribution first. Dean was captured by Adam, a young quadriplegic who had - several months previously- been channeling a demon in order to walk again. Dean and Sam stopped him, eviscerated the demon, and put Adam back in the chair. He and his fiance, Lori Ann, plotted to capture Dean and make him experience the same things Adam experiences. With the help of their own zombon (half human, half zombie) creations, they use drugs to paralyze Dean and torture him for days. One of the zombons was instructed to put a wire through his neck and around the spinal cord. Later, Dean was hooked up to a pulley system that was attached to a rope on the other end which was set to hang Sam. In order to save his brother, Dean (who was just getting movement back in his fingers from the reduced flow of drugs) was forced to propel himself forward, tugging on the wire in his neck, which then released the pressure on the rope around Sam. Sam was freed and they rush Dean off to the hospital, but the damage to Dean's spine had already been set...**

**If you want a better explanation you're just gonna have to go read the story.**

**So here's goes nothing... **

Dean is so deeply focused on the sounds of frenzy down the hall that he completely misses the entrance Adam and Lori Ann make into his hospital room. By the time he's aware, Lori Ann is standing directly over his bed, hand on its way down to his forehead as she flashes an evil grin in his direction. Adam stays silently in the background, outside Dean's field of vision.

"Hello, Dean," She sing-songs as her fingers drift to his hair, gently stroking his bangs back as she smirks patronizingly. "You're a hard man to reach, you know that?"

He gulps, while inside he's screaming. _Sammy! You've got to wake up. Get up Sam!_

_"_What's a matter, Dean? Got nothing to say?"

'You bitch,' he mouths.

She tsks at him without missing a beat, lips pursed as she looks down pityingly. "Is that any way to talk to the woman who's holding your life in her hands?"

Suddenly Dean catches a glimpse of the electrical cord Lori Ann is fingering as she lifts it high enough to fall in his line of sight. For all he knows the cord could be attached to a vacuum or a lamp, but his gut tells him it's the ventilator. One tug and he's as good as dead.

'What do you want?'

"Dean, Dean, Dean," she sings. "We just came to check on you, see how you're doing after such a traumatic experience. We were worried about you."

'Like hell you were.'

"Adam can tell you, it's terrifying having the doctors tell you you'll never walk again. Isn't that right sweetheart?"

_It won't happen to me. I'm gonna walk again,_ Dean thinks, trying desperately to convince himself. Instantly he strengthens his poker face, determined not to let slip his pain and fears. They didn't finish the job they'd set out to do - he has to believe that, and there is no way he is willing to allow them another opportunity.

"If you want to talk- Adam says, voice mocking as he gears up his wheelchair and moves closer to Dean.

'Fuck You!' Dean mouths forcefully, though he knows Adam can't see his lips any more than he can see Adam's face.

But Lori Ann can, and she sets off on another round of tsks as though it's her God-given right to scold him. "Is that any way to talk to the people who have come to help you? We know what you're going through, Dean. We just want to talk. Come on, baby, let it out."

_Sammy please, you have to wake up. I can't do this on my own. I admit it, okay? I need help!_ Dean can feel the veins on his forehead begin to pop as his head trembles. He can still see Lori Ann holding onto the electrical cord and he swallows against the tubing in his throat, knowing full well that each breath it feeds him could be his last.

Squeezing his eyes shut tight Dean works with the tension building up in what little bit of his body he has control over. He wills it to move, to spread out, fervently trying to osmose some feeling and movement back into his extremities, convinced that mind over matter will be enough. There is only one way out of this, and that is to call for help before the two lunatics at his bedside have a chance to finish him off.

"Adam tried that, too." Lori Ann says in a hushed whisper. He can feel her hot breath tickling the inside of his ear and he mentally cringes. "It doesn't matter how much willpower you have, Dean. It's not going to give you your life back. This _is_ your life now. Deal with it."

Her words stop Dean cold, sending chills down a back that refuses to respond to his pleas. He keeps his eyes shut, but loosens the pressure he's been applying as more questions come into play. _They never wanted me dead - just paralyzed. So if they're not here to finish the job then why are they here?_

'What do you want?'

"We want what any victim wants, Dean. We want to see you face the same torment you forced Adam to face. We want to watch as you learn your fate, as you deal with the idea of a future trapped inside your body. We want to experience your pain when you finally realize that this is it for you."

'I will be OK' Dean insists, finally springing his eyes back open and locking them onto the bitch in front of him. He matches her stare, cold, steely gaze to cold, steely gaze.

For a second Lori Ann seems to shrink back at the hatred and determination Dean conveys, but soon she is back in the game, taunting him with the same ferocity Adam had managed to muster through the intercom system. She lets out an explosive snort and then reins it in before her voice can wake Sam.

"I've done my research on you, Dean Winchester. I know who you are, what you're about. You and I both know you can no more live without control of your body than a fish can live without water. It. Is. Who. You. Are."

Dean forces himself not to flinch at the truth of her statement, desperately trying to convince himself that this isn't permanent. He will walk again. Soon. He just has to. 'I have Sam.'

"Sam? That's so sweet." She breaks contact with Dean to look at Adam for a minute. Dean still can't see Adam's face, but he just knows that he's grinning.

"He honestly thinks that Sam is going to stick with him through this."

'He will,' Dean insists when Lori Ann finally looks back in his direction.

"He's left you for less, Dean. If he couldn't handle the strain of being trapped in a lifestyle that he _grew up_ in, what makes you think he will be able to handle caring for you for the rest of his life. He want's more, Dean. You know that just as well as I do. He will leave you again."

Tears spring to Dean's eyes, and no matter how hard he tries to force them down he can't make them stop. Lori Ann and Adam may have managed to permanently cripple him, and now they're rubbing salt in the wounds, forcing him to face the fact that he's human. Weak. No longer indestructible. Even if, by some chance of fate, he manages to come out of this ok, Dean knows that continuing on with the lifestyle he's chosen means facing the possibility every day that he might not come out of a hunt whole. Anything could happen, at any time. And where would that leave him?

"Leaving was the biggest mistake I've ever made in my life," interrupts the angry, slightly scratchy voice of Sam, Dean's savior, just before he hears a tinny crash. Lori Ann disappears from his line of vision followed quickly by a heavy thud. And suddenly his chest compresses in on him as all the air leaves his lungs.

---

The hollow echoes of voices are more a nuisance than alarming as Sam floats in dreamland. He's never been one to dream happy dreams, but the drugs flowing through his system have at least allowed him a reprieve from his standard nightmares. Right now he is just wandering through a vast expanse of colors, smeared and swirled as though on an artists canvas. In the background soft music plays and he feels at peace.

As the voices begin to drift into his dream he aches to close them out but takes comfort in their kindness all the same. -_check on you-__worried-__sweetheart-__want to talk-__Face the same torment-_

Suddenly fear grips the outer edges of Sam's awareness as the strength in the words gives way to the emotion and he realizes there is more going on than simply an intrusion into his dream world. He struggles to break free of the drugs that hold him hostage in sleep. _Something is wrong. Dean!_

B_He honestly thinks that Sam is going to stick with him through this_B

Those words finally bring Sam back from the brink. In an instant, Sam recognizes that voice, and he knows Dean is not safe. His eyes spring open as he fights with himself to not move, to not call attention to the fact that he is now awake. Somehow he has to get from the bed over to Lori Ann without being detected - he's too weak himself to risk giving away the advantage.

Slowly, painfully, Sam rolls himself onto his side to better see the positioning around the room. Both Adam and Lori Ann have their backs to him as they hover over his brother. His _helpless_ brother. He allows himself the fleeting question of _How the hell did they get past the nurses_? But that's neither here nor there at the moment. Knowing the answer to that is not going to get them out of this situation.

_He's left you for less, Dean_.

Sam sees red. Blood flows to his ears in a cacophony of sound as he fights both his emotions and his physical pain to climb steadily, silently, to his feet. The next thing he hears is Lori Ann once again, announcing _He will leave you again_, and he's on his feet, metal bedpan gripped tightly in his white knuckled grip.

"Leaving was the biggest mistake I've ever made in my life," he growls, raising the bedpan up at the same time. Before Sam even realizes what he's doing he feels the jolt up his arm as the metal pan makes contact with the side of Lori Ann's head. She falls to the ground in a silent heap, lax limbs splaying out around her in a jumbled mess. In her hand, still clutched tightly despite unconsciousness, is a black electric cord.

Allowed only a second to wonder where the cord came from, Sam soon hears a low growl and before he can recover, he feels something slam into his knees and he's knocked off of his feet.

The pain that travels through his already damaged knee is so intense Sam can't even make a sound save for a low whimper. Dark spots dance in front of his eyes and for a second his vision goes completely black as nausea threatens his composure.

When he's finally able to open his eyes and focus on the situation, Sam comes face to face with a seething Adam hovering over him, wheelchair resting over top of his feet and ankles. Sam tries to get up, makes a noble attempt at crab-walking backwards, but one of the wheels has his pant leg trapped underneath it, and the bulky knee immobilizer has the rest of the material trapped around his leg. The combination has him effectively pinned, and he lacks the strength in that leg to pull hard enough to break free.

"What the hell do you want?" Sam demands through gritted teeth, a fire in his eyes that only comes out in desperate situations. He's in pain, he's pissed, he's worried about Dean, and there has been no greater enemy.

Adam laughs wickedly. "What do I _want_? I want my life back. I want to wake up and find this whole thing has been a nightmare. I want you and your brother to have never butted into my life. I _want_ revenge." He moves the wheelchair forward another inch.

The footrests grind against Sam's ankles, and he has to bite his tongue to keep the cry of pain at bay. But he's seen something else as the chair moves forward and he's not about to do anything to ruin his good fortune. The fabric is now free of the wheel, and if he can just gently, subtly, maneuver his feet back out from under the chair, he'll be free.

"Look, I'm sorry that we invaded your life," Sam says, breaking out his infamous puppy dog eyes for good measure. He shoots a desperate look to their closed door, wondering futilely _where the hell is the hospital staff? Have they not heard the commotion in our room? _

At the very least it works to distract Adam from his feet as the assailant reads Sam's thoughts. "They're not coming, Sam. You'd be surprised at the activity on this wing. It's been a very busy night. Strangest thing, really. Two kids coded just before we came in - such a shame, really. They both had such bright futures."

"You bastard," Sam hisses, twisting around for another look at the door, as though he might be able to see something through the thick wood. As he strains, he can finally hear the commotion down the hall. The alarms shrieking. Voices yelling. "They didn't do anything to you!"

"It's called collateral damage, Sam. Some things just can't be avoided."

Finally untangled, Sam springs to his feet with much more agility than he should have been capable of. He launches himself at Adam, shoving both man and chair backwards until they collide with the wall. The sip and puff straw Adam uses to propel himself around is knocked out of his way, effectively suspending his ability to fight back.

"I'll kill you," Sam screams, fist raised and ready to strike.

Adam just smiles, seemingly unfazed by the ferocity of Sam's actions. "No you won't," he says, the smugness clear in his voice as Sam falters.

Fist still raised, but loosening and clearly less lethal, Sam spits out, "What makes you so sure?"

"You don't have it in you to kill. Besides, I think your brother needs you more. You'd better get over there if you're going to be of any use."

On a double take, Sam finally notices the frantic expression on Dean's face and the blue pallor to his lips. "Dean!"

---

As soon as Lori Ann goes down Dean knows he's in trouble. He can instantly feel the oxygen cease to flow to his lungs, doesn't even have to hear the machine power down to know she has pulled the plug on his life source. A shrill alarm sounds, mocking his predicament.

_Sammy! Sam please!_ There is nothing he can do as he flounders like a fish out of water, gulping and gasping for a breath of air he knows won't come. His lungs have shut down, betrayed him, and he knows without a doubt that this is the way he will die. Trapped, helpless, unable to call for help or save himself. The outlet is just inches from his head, yet he lacks the power to replace the plug back in the socket.

Little colored dots begin to dance in front of his eyes, red and yellow and black. He can feel his forehead and cheeks begin to tingle as more and more air escapes from his body without being replaced.

It feels as though an elephant is sitting on his chest, suffocating him, closing off all means of survival. He gulps against the tube in his throat, tries to scream. Tears flow from his eyes, unintentional yet no less significant.

_This isn't right. This isn't fair! I can't die like this. Someone help me, please._

All of his senses cease to exist as Dean fights for air. Sight, sound, time. He knows nothing but the pure agony of knowing he's slowly suffocating to death and no one seems to care.

And then someone does care. He has no idea how long it's been, feels like a lifetime, before Sam is finally hovering overtop of him. For once the emo expression is welcome and Dean stops fighting, giving himself and his fate fully over to Sam.

Almost instantly, Sam's hands are at his neck, messing with the still tender hole and the tubing shoved into it, frantically trying to figure out the problem. Any other situation Dean would accept the idea that maybe Sam still had drugs running through his system and he'd been wrenched from a fitful sleep to come into this fight, so maybe he is a little confused and not running on all eight cylinders. _But damn it, dying here_! Dean doesn't have time to wait for Sam to figure it out. He needs him to look up. NOW.

When the cards are down and everything is laid out on the table, the Winchester brother's work like a well-oiled machine, reading each other in a language no one else understands. This situation is no different.

It's as though Dean actually gets inside Sam's head with his own thoughts, his desperation for little brother to look at him in his final seconds before darkness swallows him up. _The plug!_ Dean mouths, practically delirious with oxygen deprivation. He knows his eyes are rolling around in their sockets, unable to focus on anything. He can only hope the message got through as he finally slips under, no longer able to hold onto consciousness with so little oxygen traveling through his body.

Sam has never been good at reading lips, he's never really had cause to learn before and it's only in the last day that he's had to practice, but somehow the barely perceptible movement of his brother's blue lips gets across the fact that the plug's been pulled. The plug that he'd registered only for a split second in Lori Ann's hand before Adam had taken him down.

He drops to the ground, adrenaline masking the agony his body must be in, and grabs the plug from Lori Ann's limp hand. He's back on his feet in an instant, lurching for the outlet and already aiming for the slots before he's close enough to plug it in.

Immediately the ventilator springs back to life and he looks back to see Dean's chest begin, once again, to rise and fall in a steady motion as air is pushed back into his lungs. Sam limps back to his brother's side, hands on either side of Dean's cheeks as he taps him lightly to wake up.

An eternity passes before Dean's eyes flutter back open and he brings unfocused eyes to latch on Sam's.

'Sammy?'

"Yeah, bro, it's me. You're safe now. Don't ever do that to me again."

'Wouldn't think of it.'

Sam chuckles and discreetly wipes away a few tears that have chosen to make an appearance. "You back with me now?"

'Sure am. Not going anywhere.'

"Alright, good. I've got to take care of these two. I'll be back, I promise. You gonna be okay for a minute?"

'Yep.' _Nope_.

"Okay, I'll be right ba-"

Dean's eyes widen in warning just a second before Sam's words are cut short. He hears the air rushing at him and turns just in time to be treated to the bedpan slamming into his face. And he goes down.

_Fuck. Sam!_ The precious feelings of air rushing into his lungs and Sam standing safely in front of him are short lived. Panic quickly sets in as Dean watches Sam disappear from his vision to be quickly replaced by Lori Ann.

A deep bruise mars her temple, and a goose egg sized bump has already formed. She looks at Dean with crazy eyes, hatred oozing from the dilated pupils. If there had been any likelihood of talking her down before, Dean knows it's all over now.

His eyes drift over the objects within his limited vision, realizing that it's up to him to save both himself and Sam or they will both die. _And how the _fuck_ am I supposed to do that?_

Lori Ann launches herself at him, finger nails slashing and clawing at his face and neck. She knows what she's doing, knows it's pointless to inflict pain anywhere below that or he wouldn't feel it anyway. One hand grabs at Dean's hair, yanking and tugging, as the other pushes against his cheek.

A thumb finds its way near Dean's mouth and he takes his limited advantage, clamping down as hard as he can with his molars. He hears a crunch, a scream, and tastes the coppery tang of blood as it fills his mouth.

Lori Ann yanks her thumb from his mouth and clamps onto it with her other hand as she turns to Adam. "Fucking bastard bit me."

Wanting to gag, but knowing how dangerous that is for him, Dean pushes down the need and simply takes pleasure in the fact that he's bought himself some time.

He looks around again and finally sees the call button for the nurses station laying just inches from his right hand. They had set it in his hand earlier in the day under the guise that he could use it, and cruelly mocking the fact that he doesn't stand a chance. It has slipped out in the activity of the evening and is now in an even more out of reach location.

Yet Dean also knows it's his only chance. There is no other choice. He absolutely _must_ get to that button. His life depends on it. _Sam's_ life depends on it.

Putting forth every iota of determination in his mind and body Dean strains to make his hand move as he'd done before in the old school. He knows he will do it, because there is no other option. Sam is his responsibility, his livelihood is his job. He can't fail his little brother.

And then Lori Ann is back on top of him, finger still seeping blood and now staining the side of Dean's cheek. She goes right back to yanking at his hair, screaming in his face. Her breath falls hot and rancid against his nose. Spittle lands on his face, across his nose and cheeks, and he has to repress the need to wipe it away knowing he can't do it.

He's really not paying too much attention to what Lori Ann is doing to him, instead focusing solely on getting to that button. Once again the tension in his head and neck causes blood to fill there and he feels a tingling sensation as he fights desperately to get help, pleads with his unrelenting body to move, to push the button. Nothing happens. He can hear Adam talking in the background and surprisingly he seems to be trying to restrain Lori Ann. "Remember, don't kill him, honey. Living like this is the best punishment. Remember what we talked about? Don't kill him!" But his sugar sweet voice doesn't reach Lori Ann in her vengeful frenzy.

She lashes out with a fist to his temple, momentarily pulling Dean's attention from the call button and Adam's voice, bringing him back to the fight. He has to pause for a minute to allow his vision to come back to him, but soon he's redoubling his efforts to get to the call button.

It's horribly frustrating just how close he is, fingers mere centimeters away. And yet the odds are insurmountable. The button is just barely out of reach, but there's no way he's getting to it. He feels Lori Ann dig a trench down the side of his face with her nails and winces, in pain and frustration and desperation.

Dean bites on his lip, drawing the pain to one central location, and strains to make those few millimeters count. _Mind over matter. Just push yourself, Dean, you can do it. This can work._

Lori Ann lashes out again, flat palm swiping across Dean's cheek and sending his entire head to the right. He feels the trach shift in his throat, feels pain lance out at the incision. Instantly he's on alert, waiting for the feel of his lungs being deprived of oxygen once again. It's a feeling he's not eager to relive, but it seems inevitable. He's certain something has just been knocked loose.

So he's surprised when not only is he still breathing seconds later, but he also hears the door to the room opening and a cry of shock as Lori Ann is pulled off of him. There are time gaps in his memory as the adrenaline in his system finally depletes. He remembers sounds of shouting and security removing Adam and Lori Ann from the room, remembers someone helping an unsteady Sam to his feet, a doctor hovering over him checking his stats and all the leads and making sure that nothing else would fail.

After that he doesn't remember anything for hours. When he wakes up again the sun is shining, he's on his side facing the door, and Sam is back at his post beside his bed, boring holes into his forehead. Sam is sporting a swollen nose and a black eye from its meeting with the bedpan, and his knee is propped up on a stool with an ice pack on top, but is otherwise no worse for wear.

'Sammy?' he mouths groggily, still trying to wade through the fog of medication and concussion.

"Yeah, Dean. I'm here." Sam scoots closer, narrowing the gap between himself and Dean. "It's over. You're safe." He laughs in disbelief, pushing his hair out of his eyes. "I don't know how you did it bro, you put up one hell of a fight, managed to keep Lori Ann busy until someone heard the alarms. Guess they went off when the ventilator plug was pulled. She was about to kill you, she damn near did..."

'I'm still here.' Chick flick moments have never been Dean's forte, he avoids them with a passion, but he still finds the need to comfort Sam. Thing is, he needs Sam's comfort, too, as thoughts of the night before spring to mind. He remembers the desperation of needing to reach the call button, the feelings of failure when his hand refused to move. He was completely helpless, trapped, and -worst of all- he couldn't do a thing to save Sam. If it hadn't been for Lori Ann pulling that stupid plug on his ventilator, they might both be dead because there was nothing Dean could do to save them.

Dean looks down and focuses on his right hand, glaring, willing it to move and to prove his fears unfounded. But still nothing happens, he's as frozen as ever. The doctors have yet to confirm it, but Dean's certain this is it for him.

Looking back up, Dean sees Sam staring at him, a small smile trying to poke through as Sam attempts to see a silver lining to the fight last night. Dean doesn't have it in him to burst his little brother's bubble just yet. For some reason, Sam still has hope that things will turn out okay. Dean has to allow his little brother that hope, at least for a little while longer, at least until he can figure out how to fix this. Garnering his last few vestiges of positive thinking, Dean manages to pull a smile onto his own face.

'Still have a fight on our hands,' Dean mouths, satisfied when Sam seems to understand what he's saying.

"Nothing we can't handle, Dean. We're gonna be okay."

_I hope so, Sammy. I hope so._

**_TBC - next posting Sunday the 10th_**


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Redemption 2/8

Author: Neonchica (and Betzz)  
Rating: R  
Characters: Sam, Dean  
Disclaimer: Not mine  
Spoilers: Anything through season 2 is fair game.  
**Summary: **_Death was always an option. This - this was not. Dean has been rendered permanantly disabled by one of his enemies. Now, quadriplegic and ventilator dependant, Dean and Sam must work hard to overcome these new obstacles and learn to accept this new definition of living._

Author's Note: Just want to give a big thank you to everyone who offered their support and expertise in trying to get my LJ page formatted. Things aren't perfect over there, yet, but you can definitely follow the story. So run over there at some point and check out the pictures (link on my profile page)! And thanks again for reading.

---

Despite his injured knee, Sam has been pacing the small hospital room for the past fifteen minutes, limping back and forth as he tries desperately to curb his anxiety. Ever since Holly had peeked her head into Dean's room to announce that Dr. Prentiss would be in shortly to speak with them, Sam hasn't been able to sit still. Any minute now the neuro-surgeon is going to walk through the door with definitive news about Dean and his prognosis.

It's been four days since they arrived in the hospital, and the staff has been skirting around the question of Dean's recovery the whole time. They've been issuing words of hope and encouragement for improvement, but no one has yet mentioned a complete recovery and they avoid promises for the future.

Dean has been poked and prodded day in and day out, being forced to endure every possible test the hospital staff can come up with. He's had x-rays, MRI's, CAT scans, neuro tests, swallowing tests. They're constantly checking his reflex ability and his oxygen saturation levels. At least once a day someone tortures his brother by sticking a couple of fingers inside Dean's loosely curled fist and asking him to squeeze - and every time Dean looks to Sam with this pleading, hopeful look in his eyes, and every time Sam has to shake his head and tell him 'no, nothing happened.'

He's tired of it - sick to death of having to be the one to disappoint his brother, having to tell him over and over and over again that things aren't getting better, and then turn around and try desperately to convince him that things are going to be okay. It's impossible, draining, yet he would do it a million times more if it meant not having to face learning the truth.

Dean's still lying motionless in bed, the frame rotating slowly back and forth as it's been doing almost continuously for days. There is a low whirring of the gears, the sound competing with the hiss of the ventilator and the beeping of the monitors. It's become routine and expected, a sound Sam knows only too well now. They only stop the frame to feed Dean or administer meds, or for long conversations. Sam knows they'll stop it when Prentiss comes in.

If he were to look, Sam knows Dean's eyes will be tracking his movements, pain lingering just behind the surface over the fact that he can't be of more comfort to his little brother. But Sam can't look at his brother right now, can't bear to see the hurt – moreover, can't bear to see the fear. This is pretty much it right now, the last few minutes of sanity they have before they find out if Dean will ever walk again, will ever hunt again. Hell, right now Sam would be happy to hear that Dean will feed himself again. Or _breathe_ again. Because no matter how much he tries to put on a brave face, no matter how many times he assures Dean that things are going to get better, Sam's just not so sure about that any more.

He continues to pace, purposely avoiding eye contact with his brother as he tries not to think about the cruelty of his doing so. Right now, eye contact is about the only means Dean has of getting someone's attention, and Sam is blatantly severing that tie.

Five minutes more go by in an instant, a lifetime, and finally Dr. Prentiss breezes through the doorway followed soon after by Holly and a young medical student that Sam hasn't yet met. In a split second Sam's heart drops in his chest and he loses all ability to breathe. This is it – the moment of truth.

The doctor holds out his hand to Sam and acknowledges him with simply a curt, "Mr. Keyser" as Sam takes the man's hand out of habit and shakes it quickly. Prentiss doesn't make a motion to introduce the student with him, but rather indicates the chair beside Dean's bed and nods, clearly telling Sam to have a seat.

Everything in him is screaming _nononono_. He doesn't want to sit, doesn't want to hear what the man has to say. He just wants to rewind his life back two weeks and purposely ignore the stories in the paper that tell about people going missing in this godforsaken town. But he's abandoned his brother enough in these last several minutes, and it's for Dean that Sam finally relents and lowers himself into the chair.

Holly has already taken steps to halt the motion of the bed frame, and has it tilted just a little bit to the right so that Dean isn't staring up at the ceiling, instead has more of a view out towards the door and the wall. Sam and his chair are right in his line of sight, and they finally lock eyes for a few seconds. Sam sees forgiveness in them – forgiveness for the past several minutes, he's sure, and it makes him feel even guiltier that his brother feels the need to offer it when he doesn't deserve it.

In addition to the forgiveness, Sam sees the fear that he's been trying so desperately to avoid, and he can't stand to let his brother live alone with that emotion any more. Hesitantly, he lays his hand on top of Dean's hand, and then immediately realizes how futile that gesture is and moves his hand to his brother's forehead. Dean has been so much more willing to accept touch in these last few days, practically craves it at times, and this is no exception. He leans into it the little bit that he's able, and Sam takes up stroking Dean's forehead with his callused thumb as Dr. Prentiss pulls up a stool and aligns himself in Dean's line of sight as well. The med student stands behind him with a clipboard and a pen, poised and ready to take notes as his mentor opens his mouth up to speak.

Prentiss stares down both boys, sizing them up through his wire-rimmed glasses, immediately allowing his cocky, superior attitude to shine through. Sam has never liked the guy, from the very first meeting with him when he seemed more interested in his career and his capabilities as a surgeon than he did for the emotional welfare of his patient. But he's one of the best – so says everyone on the neuro floor – and Sam is willing to put up with him if Prentiss manages to fix his brother.

"Everything going alright today?" he asks, looking back and forth between Dean and Sam – knowing that Sam has become an interpreter of sorts for his brother.

The question throws Sam for a loop, and a quick glance at Dean tells him that his brother hadn't expected the pleasantries either. In four days Prentiss has never bothered to inquire about Dean's feelings or care. As a matter of fact, the only questions the arrogant doctor has asked Dean have related to degree of sensation and capability of movement – all of which have resulted in a big fat nada for a response.

Sam's not entirely sure how to answer the question. Dean's the same as he's been for days now, no positive change in his condition to speak of, but nothing negative either. So in that matter, he's fine. But he's freaking paralyzed, for god's sake, and that will never be alright no matter how many days go by. And unless the doctor is here with some good news then Dean is far from alright.

"Things are as good as can be expected," Sam finally replies. Already the gears are spinning in his head, wondering if there's a reason for the sudden change in attitude, fearing what that reason might be. He looks up at Holly, who has taken up a spot in the corner out of the way. She's trying to subtly watch the monitors over Dean's bed and her hands are in the pockets of her scrubs top, discreetly fingering something inside. When she sees Sam looking at her she offers a gentle smile and then looks away, resuming her vigil on the monitors.

Immediately Sam is filled with dread and he doesn't have to hear anything more to know that the news won't be good. Suddenly the world around him goes white. His heartbeat races, feels like it will pound out of his chest any minute now. Sounds cease to exist, and his mouth goes dry. When he focuses again Prentiss is looking at him strangely, head cocked as he opens Dean's chart across his lap, but goes no further when Sam gives him a nod to indicate he's not about to pass out. Yet.

SUPERNATURAL

Dean's been watching Sam, sees the anxiety that's filling his little brother, and hates himself for not being able to do anything about it. Lying helpless in the hospital bed, air being forced into his lungs through the hole in his throat, there's not much he can do other than to swallow convulsively and lick his dry lips with his parched tongue and wait. He can't voice words of comfort, can't reach out a hand in assurance, and truth be told, right now he's not sure he's got it in him even if he did have the means.

Prentiss is just barely in his line of sight, but he can see the folder that he lays out on his lap and knows the information inside will seal his fate. Sam has been nothing if not an optimist over these past few days, and Dean is grateful for his attempts, but if he's honest with himself he's known how this will go down from the minute he woke up in the hospital. Swallowing once more, Dean focuses his attention on the doctor and waits.

Clearing his throat, Dr. Prentiss takes one more look at the information displayed in front of him and then speaks. "As you know, Dean, the wire that was threaded through your spinal column completely severed the cord between the second and third cervical vertebrae. There was no physical vertebral damage, but there is no more information getting through below the level of the lesion."

He pauses for a minute, expression stern as he looks back and forth to make sure both brothers are paying attention to the information he's giving out, and then continues without another thought to their comprehension.

"We've run extensive tests to ensure there was nothing missed, but I'm afraid everything points to the same conclusion. Spinal cord tissue is non-regenerative – it doesn't grow back like hair or nails – so when the cord is severed like yours was it completely eliminates the possibility of recovery. We've diagnosed you as a C2 complete quadriplegic. I'm sorry."

If he weren't being force fed air, Dean is certain he would have stopped breathing right then and there. As it is, he feels his mouth go even drier than it already was, and the little bit of his neck and face that he can feel goes tingly and warm. Tears come to his eyes and he forces them back, ordering himself to be a man.

Sam's thumb comes to an abrupt halt, and is hastily removed from his forehead. Dean feels the absence as strong as he feels the lack of feeling in the rest of his body, and he instantly craves the contact again. Right now Sam's touch is the only thing that grounds him when the rest of his life is being chopped into little pieces and thrown into an incinerator.

It's not long before Sam's rational voice breaks into his thoughts. "You can't mean forever," his little brother insists, so calm and collected. Dean isn't sure where he's gathering the strength from, isn't sure he could do the same if the situations were reversed.

Prentiss clasps his hands and brings two fingers together against his lips, an apologetic gesture coming from anyone else, but somehow he manages to make it seem patronizing. "Unfortunately there is nothing more we can do for your brother other than to make him comfortable and prepare the two of you for this new life. There are still options, rehab hospitals and outpatient caregivers. Technology is a wonderful thing for quadriplegic patients. But it's merely a matter of adjusting and learning to live with your limitations."

_Limitations?_ Dean thinks sarcastically._ This is more than fucking _limitations!_ This is nothing. This is living as a fucking statue while my little brother is forced to care for me like an infant. I'd be better off dead!_

"I want a second opinion," Sam says through gritted teeth. "You must have missed something."

Shaking his head and looking at Sam patronizingly, Prentiss shrugs. "Feel free to bring another doctor in here if you wish. But know that the only thing you will accomplish is to drag your brother through more unnecessary tests only to garner the same result in the end." He pulls out an x-ray and stands up, removing himself completely from Dean's vision. "You see this right here?"

Now Sam is up and moving, limping over to wherever the doctor has disappeared to, and Dean is forced to listen to their conversation without seeing whatever it is that Prentiss has Sam looking at.

"This is an x-ray we took yesterday of Dean's spine. You see this down here?" There is a pause and the sound of something tapping. "That's healthy spinal cord – _intact_ cord. Now this," more tapping, "is where your brother's spinal column was severed. You see the black space in here? There's nothing there. The synapses have all been disconnected – no chance at fixing it."

Sam sighs and Dean can almost hear his brother's emo thoughts running through his head, knows somehow he's got his head in his hands, or his hands running through his hair, something to show he's upset but resigned.

Soon both return to their seats and Dean makes an effort to get Sam's attention. He's got questions, and if Sam won't ask them then he will. By some miracle, Sam notices Dean sticking his tongue through his lips, the signal they've developed to indicate "I've got something to say," and Sam gives Dean a nod to go ahead.

_'_What are symptoms?_' _Dean asks, then repeats when Sam doesn't get the question the first time around.

"Symptoms? You mean effects? Do you want to know how this will affect you permanently?"

Dean blinks once and sees Sam turn to face Dr. Prentiss again. "So what are we dealing with here? Are we gonna see any improvement?"

"How 'bout I answer that in two parts," Prentiss says. "First off, you're looking at complete lack of mobility or sensation from the neck down. Constantly ventilator dependant, and confined either to a wheelchair or a bed at all times. In the beginning it's likely that neck movements will be weak, and the ability to hold his head up will be nearly non-existent, although therapy should help to improve that in time. All functions of daily living will need to be performed by a caregiver; that includes just about everything we've been doing since Dean has been here – bathing, feeding, bathroom functions, getting dressed. It's a daunting task that takes up a good deal of time, and quite a bit of energy. Many families prefer to consider nursing home care–"

"I'm not putting Dean in a nursing home," Sam practically growls out. When Dean looks at his brother he can see the deadly seriousness in his eyes and he issues a silent _Thank You_ despite the fact that he'll probably try to convince Sam to leave him behind in one anyway. For Sam's own good, of course.

Prentiss glosses over the response, barely flinching. "You'll have plenty of time to discuss options and make decisions. Now, for the second part of your question, you asked if there would be any improvement. To be perfectly honest, I can't give you an answer to that. As I said before, the injury to the spinal cord is complete, which scientifically says that there will be no improvement below the injury site. However, even the limitations Dean is experiencing right now have room for advancement. He can't speak right now because of the ventilator, but eventually he can be fitted with a speaking valve that will allow him the opportunity to communicate. And it isn't really feasible to be sitting up in a wheelchair at this time, but in the future he can be in a wheelchair for hours at a time and will have options to control its movement himself. In a sense, there is independence that will come out of this."

Hearing about the 'hope' that Prentiss describes only succeeds in drawing Dean further down into misery. It's not the kind of hope he's looking for, not what he's wanting. He can't hear about wheelchairs and speaking valves and ventilators and nursing homes. He wants to know when he'll walk again, fight again, drive again. He wants to know when he'll get his fucking life back again. There has to be a way for that.

"I don't understand," Sam protests, absently placing his hand back on Dean's forehead , thumb resuming its stroking motion that Dean has begun to crave so much. "I've been doing research, I've been online. There are tons of stories of patients who have gotten their lives back. They're breathing on their own. Pushing their own wheelchairs. _Walking! _There's gotta be a chance, some other therapy or medication, something."

_That's it, Sam, fight this for me. Get the answers we need!_

Prentiss shakes his head, refusing to make eye contact with either of the Winchester boys. "I'm sorry, Sam. There's nothing more we can do for him. We ran a course of steroids immediately after Dean was brought in, dosed him with antibiotics and anti-inflamatories, we've done everything we could. Unfortunately, some injuries just can't be fixed."

_Way to lay it out there, doc, _Dean thinks sarcastically. His heart clenches - over the raw injustice of the doctor's announcement, over the apparent hopelessness of the situation, over the fact that he wants nothing more than to be able to reach out and squeeze Sam's shoulder and offer comfort. He's so used to being a rock for his brother, for the family. And now...now he's resigned to lying here, depending on a ventilator to keep him alive, hoping that someone might look in his direction so he can communicate.

Dean feels the tension in the air increase, can feel Sam's hand tighten and spasm on his head, and then hears his little brother's voice grit out through clenched teeth. "I suppose that means your services here will no longer be needed. Thank your for your time, but we'll take it from here."

The doctor doesn't even try to protest. He simply nods, rises from his seat, and leaves the room with the nameless med student trailing behind him.

Holly stays behind, waiting until the other two are gone before moving from her post in the corner. She seems hesitant, sympathetic, and for the first time since they've met her she's speechless. As she reaches for the switch on the bed to start it moving again, Sam moves his hand from Dean's head, holding it out, palm flat, and says "don't, not yet. Dean and I need to talk."

Dean can't see her, so he can only assume she nods in agreement, but the bed remains still. "It'll be time for meds and dinner soon," Holly says instead. "I'll be back then."

He watches her leave, then locks eyes with Sam, noticing his little brother's distress. 'It will be okay,' he mouths in reassurance.

Sam hesitates and scrubs a hand over his face. "Of course it'll be okay," he asserts, a little too loudly, a little too quickly. "They don't know what we know." And then laughs, "You're still comforting me. In spite of everything."

'That's my job. Will never change.'

"I think it's okay if you let me take over for a while. You know, just until you're back on your feet again."

Dean closes his eyes tight and tries not to think about what Prentiss has just told them. He pushes it to the farthest corner of his mind and instead focuses on Sam's unyielding certainty that they can figure out a solution. _I will walk again. Damnit, I will. I have to._

The ventilator hisses loudly, bringing him back to reality, seemingly arguing against their hopes and dreams. When he opens his eyes again Sam is looking at him with hope and determination.

"Things really will get better," he says again. "I promise it will. There's too much evil out there still, too many people that need us. No way you get brought down because of a stupid wire. No way, bro."

Blinking his eyes once, yes, Dean finds comfort in Sam's words. He's tired. It's been a long day, and somehow not moving takes a lot out of him, wears him down quickly. He's already finding it hard to stay awake for much longer, eyelids drooping against his will.

"You just sleep," Sam says, noticing the onset of exhaustion that seems to have overtaken his brother so quickly. "Get some rest. I'll wake you up for dinner."

SUPERNATURAL - Three days later

Seconds blend into minutes, minutes into hours, and hours into days. But for Dean, his days are no longer measured by time, but rather by function and action, by the number of times the nurses and therapists enter his room, going about their jobs to keep him alive.

His day starts early, just as the first rays of the sun begin to stream through the closed curtain, just after the morning shift of nurses comes on duty. At seven in the morning it's usually Jeanette who wakes him up, humming some nameless song under her breath as she crosses the room and opens his chart on the table beside the bed, double checking the orders. She's slender, nearing forty, and wears a simple gold wedding band on her left ring finger.

She always takes a minute to smile down at him and give his cheek a soft caress in that mother-like way of hers, whispering "good morning" so she doesn't wake Sam, who has normally been sleeping for just a few hours in the big lounge chair in the corner. Dean tries to smile back, strained but willing to put forth the effort, and mouths 'hi' right back.

They've got a routine, or rather, Jeanette has a routine and Dean lays there and lets her work without protest. The first couple of mornings she'd told him what she was doing, so even now - when she's trying to be quiet for Sam's sake - he knows what's happening.

The catheter is first, cleaning it out and checking it for kinks and clogs, irrigating his bladder with sterile water, emptying the collection bag and making a note of his urine output on his chart. She always washes her hands immediately before and immediately afterward, scrubbing them with soap and lots of hot water, then puts on a fresh pair of latex gloves before filling a kidney basin full of soapy water and removing the padding and braces of the bed that usually keeps Dean secure as it rotates on its frame. Under the sheet that covers Dean up to his shoulders he's already naked, because it's easier for his care, and he always feels a little bit self conscious and exposed at this point in the game.

She uses a clean wash cloth and bathes him, starting with his feet and working her way up. Every couple of days they wash his hair and shave him, but not today. Today it's just a sponge bath. He imagines the water is warm, soothing, and tries to remember a time when he could feel the sponge bath while laid up in a hospital bed after some hunt or another. Tries to remember the names and faces of the young nurses who used to fall all over themselves to be the one who got to give him a bath. Remembers the flush of their faces as he flirted and flattered, seduced them with promises of dinners and exciting evenings.

The whole time she's washing him she's also checking for pressure sores and rubs, anything that could indicate a breakdown in the skin. That thought brings him back to reality, back to the cold hard facts of why he's getting bathed now instead of jumping up to take a shower. He can't flirt anymore, can't even talk. No one fights to bathe him anymore - because now it's a chore, a necessity, a lifesaving job.

Jeanette stops just at his chest, covering him back up with the sheet and saving the rest of the bath until later. This is the point where things get noisier in the room, and it will inevitably wake Sam up. That's why she does most of the bath first, to give him more time to sleep. But the breakfast carts are already clattering out in the halls, and there's usually just enough time to clean out the trach and suction Dean's lungs before it's time to eat.

He hates anything to do with the trach the most, because it inevitably means his air supply will be cut off. Memories of the night when Lori Ann pulled the plug on him come rushing back every time, inciting terror. But there's nothing he can do about it, it's a necessary evil, and he's just got to make the most of it. Like everything else, Dean has to suck it up and be a man about it.

She removes the wet gloves and pulls on her third pair of the morning before raising the bed up just a bit - 20 degrees, no higher. Jeanette works around the trach first, removing the gauze from around it and using a fresh wash cloth to clean the still healing skin at the site. It hurts, the only pain he feels anymore, and Dean relishes it, finds the pain oddly comforting.

Dean braces himself mentally for the rest as his nurse flips the switch to turn off the alarm for the vent. Jeanette looks him strait in the eyes every time and asks "Are you ready?" And every time Dean blinks twice for 'no,' then grimaces, resigned, and blinks one more time for 'yes.'

In one hand she grips the ventilator hose, in the other she holds the suction hose, and in one swift motion she swaps the two hoses and proceeds to suction out the mucus from Dean's lungs because his diaphragm isn't strong enough to allow him to cough on his own any more.

For five agonizingly long seconds Dean bucks and chokes and screams for air. He hates himself, his body, for the fact that it's betrayed him so horrendously. And then air fills his lungs once again as Jeanette reconnects the vent hose.

They repeat the process two more times, sometimes three if his lungs are particularly goopy, and then she disconnects the vent one more time to remove the inner cannula from within the trach and replace it with a new, clean one. And then he's done with that torture, at least for the time being. But most of the procedure will be performed at least twice more over the course of the day.

Dean is positive that the sound of the vacuum hose wakes Sam every morning, just as he knows that Sam pretends to be asleep until Jeanette is done. Because every morning, just when Jeanette is securing the vent hose for the final time, Sam climbs out of the chair, waves a good morning, and stumbles into the bathroom. Dean doesn't want his brother to watch the morning routine up to that point, and somehow Sam seems to know this inately and does his best to comply with his brother's wishes. For that, Dean is grateful.

Breakfast comes on a square, beige cafeteria tray, covered with a clear plastic lid. It's always the same pock-faced kid that delivers it, hair slightly mussed up and khaki pants and red polo shirt sorta wrinkled, as though he'd rolled out of bed that morning, grabbed his clothes from the basket of unfolded laundry, and raced out the door. He never quite makes eye-contact with Dean, but never quite looks at Jeanette, either, so Dean supposes it's got more to do with a lack of self-esteem than it does with being afraid of him.

The tray is set on the rolling table beside Dean's bed, maneuvered so it is across him on the bed, and she lifts the lid just as Sam reappears from the bathroom, leaning a bit on a cane to stay off his bad knee. He's got his hair tamed and his face washed and he crosses the room so that Dean can see him. Tries to smile and usually falls short.

"Anything I can do to help?" It's always the same question, always answered in the same way. Dean blinks twice, "no" and Jeanette nods, winks conspiratorially at Dean, and turns to Sam.

"I think we've got everything under control here. Why don't you go get your shower and some breakfast. He should be ready for you by the time you get back."

Dean closes his eyes then, just for a few seconds, just long enough to miss seeing the flash of angst that crosses his brother's face as he's denied access to what he needs most - a way to help his brother. Dean hates seeing his brother hurting so much, but he's just not ready to let Sam help. He hates the idea of his little brother taking care of him the way the nurses do, hates reducing their roles to that of patient and nurse. They're brothers, friends, partners. That's enough.

When Dean looks again Sam is reluctantly gathering his wallet from a stack of stuff on the dresser across the room. It gets easier to convince him to leave every day, probably because he's getting used to the routine.

Crossing back over to Dean, Sam brushes his hair out of his eyes and then plants a hand on each hip. "You good for a bit?" He seems almost hopeful, desperate to be needed. God, he is needed, more than he'll ever know, but right now Dean needs him to find some normal, needs him to fall into his own routine that doesn't entirely revolve around watching his invalid brother get spoon fed and cleaned up like an infant.

One blink, solid and firm and unyielding. 'Bring me coffee,' Dean mouths, trying to incite a bit of humor into the dour situation.

Sam chuckles softly, breathes out a sigh of relief. "Yeah, I'll talk to your doctor about that one. Prune juice a good alternative?"

Dean pulls a disgusted face, then smiles. 'Bitch.'

"Jerk," Sam replies quickly, reaching down and cupping Dean's cheek in his hand, patting it a couple of times before turning on his heel and limping from the room.

They go back to concentrating on the food, mush is more like it, and Dean has to steel himself again to stomach the slop that the hospital seems to consider appropriate for him to eat. He can't swallow solids anymore, not yet, so everything is soft and slimy. At least there's no oatmeal today, but that only makes it slightly better. Today it's scrambled eggs and applesauce, mutilated hashbrowns that are more like mashed potatoes, and cranberry juice.

Jeanette is usually pretty good at letting Dean be involved if at all possible, and she looks at him sympathetically as she asks what he wants to start with.

'Applesauce,' Dean mouths, choosing the lesser of three evils. That, he knows, comes from a jar. Kinda hard to mess it up.

He grudgingly opens his mouth for the first bite, and then the second, and so on, rolling his eyes good naturedly whenever she spills some on his chin. The food feels weird going down his throat as it slides past the intrusive tube, and he can feel the slight strain on his neck. Thoughts jump back and forth between _I can't wait to feed myself again_ and _this is it, this is my life from here on out._ But he tries to stick with the hope, because that's the only thing that's keeping him grounded, the only thing that keeps him from bawling his eyes out like some baby. Wouldn't that just make Dad so proud.

When breakfast wraps up the morning routine is almost done. Jeanette finishes cleaning him up, washing his face of the residual breakfast goo. She pulls out a toothbrush and puts the tiniest bit of paste on the bristles. It's edible, won't hurt when swallowed, but less is still better. Dean opens wide, ready to get rid of the carpet that's taken up residence on his tongue and the fungus that's all over his teeth.

Meds are administered last, all intravenously, and he feels them take effect almost immediately. They're done with the sedatives, but he's still experiencing pain in his neck, where the spinal cord is kind of back firing, and the pain killers for that make him feel groggy. This is where he usually allows himself some rest, just a few minutes, just until Sam returns.

SUPERNATURAL

Sam has to force himself to take his time with breakfast, knowing he'll just be sent back out of the room if he returns before Dean and his nurse are done with the morning routine. He hates being shut out like this, yet he's not entirely sure he's ready to know exactly what happens every morning when he's not watching. It's a vicious catch-22.

For a solid thirty minutes Sam picks at his food, eating maybe a third of it at most, and then tosses the rest in the garbage and makes his way slowly back to the sixth floor. He's been released from the hospital for three days now, but the nurses are still nice enough to let him use the shower at the end of the hall and that's where he goes next.

When he comes back out, freshly showered and dressed, Jeanette is back at the nurses station updating charts and that's his cue that it's safe to return to his brother. There is at least an hour, maybe two, before a physical therapist comes to the room and for that Dean allows him to stay anyway.

His brother is resting when Sam enters the room, eyes closed but they flutter open when Dean hears Sam's footsteps. The bed is back to rotating gently in the frame as the ventilator continues to hiss and whoosh, heart monitor still beeping quietly.

"Everything go okay in here?" Sam asks, his way of requesting permission to enter.

Dean scowls and blinks once, then pointedly directs his eyes to the chair beside his bed, then to the brace on Sam's knee, and back again to the chair.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm moving." Letting out a muffled laugh through his closed mouth Sam can't help but smile as he hobbles over to the chair and sits down. It's amazing to him how Dean can have nothing but expressions to communicate, yet still manages to mother hen like a pro.

"Happy now?" Sam asks, once he's settled, foot and knee propped up on a stool.

They have to wait for the bed to finish its rotation, returning back to face Sam, before Dean can answer, but it's with a smirk and another single blink that tells Sam his brother is still in there, fighting to return to normalcy.

It's frustrating to hold one sided conversations, even harder to hold it with someone who's usually so vocal and snarky. Ordinarily by this time Dean would be climbing the walls of the hospital, begging to be released, begging Sam to sneak him out.

But this time it's different. This time, Sam can't sneak Dean out even if he wanted to. The medical necessities that surround simply keeping his brother alive now completely eradicate any possibility of an easy escape. According to the doctor, they'll need a ventilator, a special wheelchair, medications out the wazoo, day and night care. If it were as simple as putting mind over matter and walking out of the hospital, Sam is certain that Dean would have done it already.

No, this is real, and it's taking its good old time getting better. But it has to get better - absolutely has to.

Sam lets out a long breath of air and tries to force himself to let go of the constant barrage of 'Get Dean better, must get better,' running through his mind. Looking at Dean, he can see his brother is still tired, eyes at half-mast, and Sam knows he's not going to be up for much in the way of conversation.

"How 'bout we see what's on TV?" Sam asks instead, doesn't even wait for Dean to blink his agreement because Dean is _always_ up for TV. He reaches for the controller on the side of the bed and turns the unit on, flipping through the channels until he finds something worth watching mid-morning on a weekday. Casting another glance at Dean, his brother blinks to confirm his choice of show, and they both settle in to watch.

A solid knock at the door breaks into the sounds of the television less than an hour later and Sam looks up to see a guy he doesn't know, about his age, tall but not nearly as tall as Sam, and dressed neatly in a striped dress shirt and khaki slacks. "Hi! Tristan," he says, pointing to himself. "I'm here for a PT session with, um, Dean." He has to look down at his chart before he says the name, but somehow Sam can tell that it was more of a confirmation than an actual check, like the kid had memorized his brother's name on the way down the hall but didn't want to appear too eager, needed to feel professional and thought that professionals didn't know the first names of all their patients.

Nodding his welcome, Sam motions Tristan in with slight a wave of his hand and then points at his brother. "This is Dean. I'm Sam. He's all yours." He watches the bed for a minute, waits for it to center out, then flips the switch to stop it from moving as Tristan crosses the room.

Sam stays with Dean for physical therapy, although Dean adamantly refuses to let Sam help. Instead, he continues to sit in the chair and watches anxiously as the PT goes through range of motion exercises in Dean's arms and legs.

It's always a different PT, normally a third year student on rotation. Today. the student is talkative and thorough, addressing both brothers through the routine and explaining much of what he's doing. Sam soaks it all in, retaining the information for later when he figures Dean will have to allow him to help. He's still determined to find a way to get Dean better, but it could take time and effort.

Every muscle and joint is worked, moved in any direction it should normally move. Fingers and toes, ankles and wrists, elbows and knees.

"Things are looking good so far," Tristan says as he works Dean's left arm, bending the elbow in and out, back and forth, rotating the whole arm at the shoulder with one hand braced tightly around the socket.

Sam tries hard not to watch as Dean's hand flops lifelessly through the movements, bent unnaturally at the wrist, fingers curling inward. He tries to ignore the fact that his brother seems to shut down during these sessions, staring blankly at the ceiling and not engaging in conversation or action. Eyeing Tristan eagerly, he awaits clarification of the PT's words, expecting to hear that Dean's getting better, healing.

"They've been doing a great job with his therapy. There's no sign of muscle atrophy yet."

"Oh." Sam's heart sinks. He has to swallow back the lump in his throat. "That's...that's great news. That'll help when he starts to regain feeling, right?" He allows a small glimmer of hope to shine through in the question, still not willing to let the kid off the hook.

Tristan's face drops a little bit and he looks away, back to the job he's doing. He's hesitant when he finally speaks, as though he's not sure it's his place. "You do know his prognosis, right? The doctors have spoken to you?"

Sam thinks back to when Dean was electrocuted and to the accident that left him in a coma, remembers his resurrection from both. Conveniently forgets the black magic and deals that went along with healing his brother, forgets that Dean has already forbidden him to do anything like that to heal him now. "You don't know my brother's determination. If anyone can come back from this, it's Dean." He says it so matter-of-factly that he almost believes it himself, and for a flicker of an instant Dean breaks from his self-confined meditation and glances over to his brother, flashes a smile so fast Sam's not sure if he saw right, then goes back to staring at the ceiling.

Sighing, Tristan carefully chooses his next words. He looks right at Sam when he says them. "Sam, man, I'm an optimist. I like to think the best of a situation, and I would like nothing more than to see our man Dean here to walk again. Honestly, I hope you prove me and all the doctors wrong - I really do. But I also think you guys need to be preparing yourselves for what happens if he doesn't get up and walk soon, ya know? I mean, he just might get better, but it could be weeks or months...or it could be _years._ You gotta live in the here and now, right? Gotta prepare for what you know today, not what might happen next year."

"We'll do what we have to," Sam answers defensively, "but that doesn't mean we can't want more, right? Where are we without hope, without expectations? Medicine is improving every day, so trust me when I tell you - my brother and I, we're gonna beat this thing. You just watch."

"I'll keep my fingers crossed for you guys," Tristan says, clearly realizing he's not getting any further with arguing. His silence is almost worse than the argument, like he really doesn't believe what Sam's saying, but it just isn't worth trying to convince him otherwise. He lowers Dean's arm back into the bed frame and moves on to his legs, picking up the left first and rotating it gently at the ankle.

Sam sits back down heavily, feeling exhausted and desperate and hating the fact that he has to exert so much energy into convincing the hospital staff that his brother isn't through with his recovery yet. They don't talk for the rest of the session, Tristan looking altogether uncomfortable during the silence while Sam mournfully watches his brother's eerily still legs and tries to convince himself they belong to someone else.

SUPERNATURAL

Jeanette returns at lunchtime for an abbreviated version of her morning visit - suctioning Dean's lungs, and feeding him a lunch of some kind of creamy chicken soup and mashed potatoes and something that looks mysteriously like baby food, but she assures him is _only_ pureed vegetables - not that he's ever liked vegetables anyway, but this? _Ugh!_

Once again they've sent Sam from the room, insisting that he needs to eat and that this is as good a time as any. He seems more hesitant to leave this time, after the morning's PT session, and Jeanette finally has to physically push him from the room before she manages to convince him that Dean will be fine with her, that he needs a little bit of privacy.

It's sort of a bittersweet victory - getting Sam from the room - because Dean's never quite sure how he feels about Jeanette, or Holly, or any of the other nurses that flutter into and out of his room on a daily basis. For him they represent rescue and torture all at the same time, a reprieve from his little brother's constant vigil, a reminder of what he can't do on his own. He depends on the nurses, knows he literally can't survive without all they do for him, knows that the smallest infection or an overfull bladder or any number of other things that never even registered a blip on the radar screen _before_ could now kill him. It's their job to make sure those things don't occur.

But then again, maybe he would be better off letting himself get an infection, letting it kill him. Maybe it would be easier to just say good-bye to Sam now while his brother hasn't yet experienced the hell of Dean's new life, save him from the pain and frustration of giving up the life he knows, the life he can still have, to care for Dean 24-7.

And how fucking depressing is it that two weeks ago he was worrying about demons and wendigos and vampires, and now he's got people freaking out about breakdowns in his skin and whether or not there's mucus in his lungs. So now, not only does he have to worry about fending off all the scary things that go bump in the night when he can't even reach up a finger to scratch his nose, but he's also got to worry about the little things too.

_Speaking of mucus, shit, here we go again._ It's the same shit over and over again, day in and day out. Someday, Dean figures, he'll get used to this, learn to accept it. But not today. He cringes as the tubes are switched, makes the futile attempt to hold some air in his lungs and ends up the same place he always does - choking and gagging silently, wanting to scream out. Except this time is maybe even worse. His neck hurts more than normal and he feels the pain of having the fresh stoma bumped and prodded more than he usually does. He chalks it up as paranoia, reminds himself that the nurses and Sam do enough worrying without him having to jump in on the bandwagon as well. It's just tender, gotta be when they're ramming into it day in and day out with the stupid suction tube. Convincing himself to ignore the additional twinge of pain, Dean instead goes back to hoping and waiting for the torture to be over with. He actually wants Sam back with him right now.

The lunchtime session with Jeanette doesn't take nearly as long as his morning session and soon Dean finds himself alone in his room, tired, and waiting for Sam to return. He drifts off to sleep before his brother returns and dreams of walking and hunting and having sex with beautiful women, feels the heat of his body in the throes of passion. When he wakes up, he can still feel the residual heat in his head and neck and he lays there and relishes in it, praying for the feeling to stay with him.

He can feel himself sweating, can feel the flush of his cheeks and the moisture dripping down his temples and back into his hair, and suddenly realizes that it's not some residual from his dream, but rather real life symptoms screaming that something is maybe wrong. But when he opens his eyes and focuses on Sam, his brother doesn't seem terribly worried and Dean lets that guide him and reassure him. He's fine. Nothing is wrong.

As the afternoon progresses, Dean's beginning to feel worse and worse. His throat is screaming, and it's all he can do to force dinner down. For a minute, while Holly is feeding him he debates on telling her that something doesn't feel right. But he's a Winchester, and Winchester's don't complain - especially about something as little as a sore throat. It's hard to change ingrained habits.

When dinner is done, Holly sets Dean up for his bowel routine, his least favorite part of the day next to the suctioning. Thank god it's an every other day type of thing and he's not forced to live through it as often. She lowers the head of the bed back down flat and shoves a waterproof pad underneath his butt before bending his legs back in a frog-like position and propping them up with pillows. The gloves go on, and this time one of the fingers is lubricated with KY Jelly before she opens a suppository - Magic Bullets, they're called - and goes to work. Once she's done _down there,_ Holly removes the gloves and positions herself next to Dean, where he can see her, to wait.

"Are you feeling alright, honey," she asks in that grandmotherly way of hers, concerned eyes looking Dean up and down as her hand comes to rest on his forehead. "You look a bit pale."

Truth be told, he's feeling mighty dizzy right about now, and like he just may throw up. Memories of his captivity, throwing up through the vent hose after the halo was removed, have Dean thisclose to admitting how he's feeling. But it's probably just nausea from the bowel routine, feeling sick to his stomach simply because he hates the procedure so much. He figures just about anyone would feel sick when they're being manhandled and forced to take a public crap laying in bed. That's all it is; he's sure of it.

'I'm fine,' he mouths, blinking once for good measure. 'Just tired of this.'

Holly purses her lips and gives him a sympathetic half-smile, glances down to see his progress at the other end of the bed and then returns her gaze to meet his eyes. "Can't be easy, getting used to all this. An athletic guy like yourself. You're doing well, all things considered."

Dean doesn't say anything. What is there _to_ say? He's been through it all; the "I wanna get better's" and the "This totally blows," and the "Let me die's." If not with the nurses or Sam then with himself. But no amount of wishing or hoping or cursing makes the feelings of inadequacy go away. He's a ticking time bomb, just waiting for something to go wrong and kill him. And yet, he can't do it himself; can't even kill himself.

The routine takes anywhere from 20 minutes to an hour, and in that time Holly sits with him and talks, tries to engage him. He never feels like talking much, but today is even worse. He's got a headache the size of Mount Rushmore building up on top of everything else he's been feeling today. Yet he forces himself to stick with the conversation for the simple fact that he doesn't want her to realize there's anything wrong.

"I don't know much about your past," Holly is saying when Dean returns his focus on her. "I know it's just you and your brother, that you're on some type of a road trip or something. But I don't know much about _you_, who you are, what you did before all of this."

_I'm a fucking hunter. It's who I am _and_ what I did._ 'Odds and ends,' Dean mouths. He doesn't want to get too much into it, has just realized that he and Sam never spoke much about a cover story and he doesn't want to go stomping all over whatever it is his little brother has worked up.

"Nothing static?" Holly asks, surprised. "Didn't you go to college? Technical school? You strike me as an intelligent young man."

_Lady, I barely finished highschool,_ Dean thinks to himself bitterly, and then finds himself wondering what that ultimately means for him. Because he's not educated. The only time he's ever pushed his brain to do more than chase skirts is when he's strategizing on a hunt, and that sure as hell isn't going to get him far. What is he supposed to do now that he's stuck _only_ with his mind.

Dean blinks twice, hard, trying to filter every ounce of bitterness for this newest revelation into his answer. 'Sam is the college boy,' he mouths, then averts his eyes, blinking hard to keep his tears at bay. He chalks the emotions up to the same damn routine that's making him nauseous. Stupid intestines that won't work properly.

Holly takes a minute to read her patient's reaction, reaches out and brushes his hair back and uses that guise to nonchalantly wipe the stray tear out of the corner of Dean's eye. "Doesn't mean you can't change that. You could go back to school."

He snorts, realizes it loses something with the lack of air to back it up, and raises an eyebrow instead. "Don't think that will happen now." _Even if I _wanted_ to go back to school I wouldn't be able to do it. I'm not smart enough. And let's not forget that I CAN'T FUCKIN MOVE!_

"I wouldn't be so sure of that. You're still young, you've got plenty of time to be making decisions on your future."

This isn't a conversation Dean wants to be having, especially not with his nurse, and not now when he feels like crap. Clamping his mouth shut, Dean turns his head the slight bit it will go and closes his eyes.

"Sorry, hon," Holly says, sympathetically. She pats his cheek a couple of times with her open palm. "Guess you're not ready to talk about that, huh? Let's maybe talk about something else."

Dean doesn't answer, doesn't open his eyes. The dizziness is becoming more pronounced as the evening progresses, but that's only half the reason for his despondency. Despite his desire to do anything but, the conversation has pushed Dean into thinking solely about his future and Sam's future and what the hell they're going to do now that he's down for the count. How they'll get by, money and living arrangements and life sustaining measures. He's not sure how they're going to pay for everything - this has already got to be costing a fortune and the fake insurance scam must be raising red flags by now. He thinks back to the conversation with the doctor and the suggestion that he be put into a nursing home, knows he would rather die than spend his days being cared for in some smelly old folks home with Grandpa Melvin and his false teeth laying in the bed next door. But also knows he can't ask Sam to give up everything just to care for him.

It's that knowledge that has Dean ignoring the fact that the flush in his face is getting far worse, the sweating more pronounced. He can barely swallow around the tube anymore, and his head is absolutely killing him. In the background Dean can hear Holly prattling on some more, but she's long since stopped trying to engage him in conversation and he's long since stopped paying attention. Something is definitely wrong; if he hadn't known before he knows for certain now.

Opening his eyes Dean makes a half-hearted attempt to get Holly's attention. He doesn't want to live like this, but he's not yet ready to die, either. The nurse has moved from the chair, is back down below working on cleaning him up, and doesn't see him try to make eye contact. Next thing he knows, another wave of dizziness attacks and then his face and neck go all tingly and super-hot before all the remaining muscles he has left stiffen convulsively and the lights in the room flutter into and out of his vision. And then his world goes blank.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** So, what I had feared would happen is beginning to happen... While no one has actually said anything negative to me (Thank You!) I'm beginning to feel just a tad anxious about writing such a horrendous injury for Dean. This is not an easy subject to read, nor is it easy to write. And in light of that, I wanted to maybe explain my reasons behind it - if nothing else, to make me feel better.  
For as long as I can remember I have been enamored with anything pertaining to the medical field, particularly the brain and spinal cord and the effects of damage to these fragile structures. The Central nervous system, in general, is fascinating because it is the only part of our bodies that does not completely and unquestionably regenerate, and it takes intense and constant rehabilitation to offer even a glimmer of hope of returning to ones old life. Ever since I was old enough to understand this I have known I wanted to be a part of that hope, and I will graduate next Spring with a Master's degree in Speech-Language Pathology, with an emphasis on Traumatic Brain Injury.  
I have been writing these injuries and disabilities into fiction for just as long (with my own characters and for my own enjoyment), so when I discovered that I could connect with the Winchester boys in such a way that I felt I could do their characters justice it was only natural for me to transfer my interest into that fanfiction realm. At first, my goal was simply to write something that hadn't been written. In just a year into the show I had already seen stories dealing with every injury and emotional conflice under the sun, but at that point I had yet to see anything dealing with permanent injury, particularly to the brain or Spinal cord. With Weston House, I hoped to share my knowledge as well as prod others to write that type of injury into their fics (and some have - would LOVE to read more!!!).  
As Weston House came to a close, though, I realized that it wasn't just about influencing other fics in that genre, but also about providing a complete and accurate account of the effects this kind of injury has on the body and the mind. By no means do I claim to be an expert, and I'm always seeking more knowledge, but I try to be as accurate in these stories as I can. I know sometimes that can come off as a bit "too intense" for the more squeamish readers, and I apologize for that, but I feel like I would be doing a disservice to the thousands of people living with injuries just like those I write if I were to ignore the less "pretty" aspects of daily life. I seek to inform and to entertain, and hopefully am succeeding at that. And while I'm sorry that it has to be Dean...just remember that the "real" Dean is still fully intact and off fighting the good fight every Thursday night on the CW! LOL.  
Anyway, hopefully that explains some of "me." And if nothing else, at least I feel better. : ) Thanks for listening to my ramblings.

And again, if you're interested their are pictures over on my lj - make sure to check those out too!

**So on with the story....**

Sam is in the hallway when he hears the alarms scream out from his brother's room and sees the flurry of medical staff come flying down the hall. He'd returned several minutes before and was just waiting for the door to open and Holly to emerge before he went back in to join Dean.

Now, he frantically follows the doctors and nurses into the room, but gets no further than the doorway before he stops, panic preventing him from going any closer to the bed. They wouldn't have allowed it anyway, knows he would be shuffled aside immediately even if he did manage to make it to Dean's side, but right now he can't manage to make his feet work to save his life.

Holly and the doctor on call are hovering over his brother, calling to him and examining him as two other nurses help to check every inch of his body and the hoses surrounding him. Dean is writhing on the bed, limbs flailing, head shifting, and for a minute Sam thinks maybe Dean has gotten sensation and movement back in his useless body. But there's too much anxiety surrounding the situation, not enough relief.

"Dean, can you hear us sweetheart? It's going to be okay. We'll get this figured out, we've got you." It's Holly's voice that Sam hears, her hands that he sees planted firmly on either side of Dean's cheeks as the young doctor spouts orders and consults Dean's chart. He spews out orders for medications, administers the drugs himself through the port on Dean's IV line, waits impatiently for the flailing to stop and Dean to relax.

When the initial panic is over the doctor spouts new orders and suddenly there's a flurry of fresh activity as one of the nurses pushes past Sam and disappears out into the hall, returning soon after with an orderly pushing a gurney. They prepare Dean, work and maneuver him to slip a sheet underneath and then the whole crew takes hold of different parts of the sheet and transfer him from the bed onto the gurney, swapping out the room ventilator for a portable vent and gathering up the IV lines and tubes before rushing their patient from the room.

No one seems to notice Sam is even there until the room is empty of staff once again and it's suddenly only Sam and Holly. She's stayed behind to finish cleaning up the remnants of the bowel routine and Dean's dinner, allowing the trauma team to do their work without her intervention. In shock, Sam slowly makes his way to the chair near Dean's bed and sinks into it, startling the nurse out of her own daze.

"Sam, you scared me," Holly says, clasping her well manicured hand to her chest. "I didn't know you were here."

"What just happened?" he demands, not interested in small talk. "What's going on with my brother?"

She grimaces and drops the load of sheets she's holding back onto the bed in a giant ball. "That's what they're trying to figure out," she tells him. "He seemed a little off when I got here, but when I asked him if he was feeling alright he said he was fine. As near as we can tell he's suffering from a condition called autonomic dysreflexia. Dr. Robinson was able to stabilize him but they took him for some testing to figure out what's causing it."

"I don't know what that is," Sam says, brushing the hair out of his eyes and looking imploringly at the grandmotherly nurse. He considers telling her that he's not surprised Dean didn't complain, but decides that isn't important right now. What is important is making sure his brother gets better. "How serious is it?"

"It can be very serious if it's not caught in time. Autonomic dysreflexia is where the blood pressure soars dangerously high, and can occur from any number of different irritants. It can be a blocked catheter, backed up bowel, an infection, even a wrinkle in the sheet pressing on his skin, anything that affects the body and causes it to react negatively can lead to AD. You should be aware of the early symptoms, things to watch out for, like tingling and dizziness, headaches, excessive sweating and a feeling of heat to the skin, sometimes a flush as well. I think your brother may have been experiencing some of those symptoms, but, like I said, he told me he was feeling fine."

_Now's the time to tell her, _Sam thinks as he realizes he missed some key signs earlier in the day too. _Damn you, Dean! You have to tell us when you're sick._ "Dean sometimes thinks he's invincible - you know, that the little things won't hurt him. I guess, in the grand scheme of things, he figured a little headache wasn't much to complain about. He's stubborn that way." Sam says it apologetically, as though it's his fault that Dean keeps these things to himself.

"Well he can't be stubborn like that anymore," Holly says gently. "A little headache can indicate something much bigger. If he had told one of us that he wasn't feeling well earlier a lot of this probably could have been prevented."

Silence follows as Sam takes in the information she's presenting him. He hesitates, wonders if he should ask the next question, then slowly does. "He um...I mean I saw...he was moving."

Holly's face pinches up in nervous reservation and she immediately goes back to concentrating on cleaning up the bed and preparing it for Dean's return. She doesn't seem to want to look at Sam anymore, and stalls as long as she can before coming out with an answer.

"Please, Holly, just tell me. That means he's getting better, right?"

Finally realizing she can't escape this, Holly turns back around and looks at Sam, propping a hip against the bed for support. "No, Sam, I'm sorry. What you saw were involuntary spasms. It's just a misfire in the nerve synapses - not a sign that he's improving. I'm sorry, Sam. I really am."

"Oh," he says softly, looking down at his hands and blinking furiously to keep from crying. _Stupid, stupid! _"I just thought...I mean it kind of–"

He feels hands wrapping around his own and Sam looks up to see Holly staring at him, compassion filling her expression. "Sam, I wish I could tell you that he's going to get better, I really do. But the reality of the situation is that he's going to be paralyzed like this for the rest of his life. Give it time, honey. You both just need some time to wrap your minds around this, to process everything."

Sam isn't sure what to say to that, how to respond, and instead he just sinks further back into the chair and closes his eyes. He didn't want to get his hopes up, yet he did anyway, and the disappointment is suffocating. But all he really hears is that Dean hasn't improved _yet_, doesn't hear Holly's conviction that he'll never improve. That one little ray of hope is the only thing Sam has left to hold on to. He's seen miracles in his line of work, has seen things happen when they shouldn't have. There is no reason to think that this time will be any different.

Right now, he shouldn't even be worrying about whether Dean will walk or not, he finally tells himself as he hears Holly gather up the remainder of the stuff and tiptoe out of the room. Right now it's about focusing on what's just happened, making sure Dean recovers from that. Everything is going to be fine.

* * *

It's hours later when they return Dean to his room and Sam hasn't left his post once in all that time, frustrated as he waits for word from the doctors. Holly is still on duty and she joins the doctor and the two orderlies as they work in reverse to return Dean to his special bed. She then takes over his care, arranging him back in the frame and checking the tubes and wires once again to make sure everything is in working order.

Sam had jumped out of the way to allow the staff to work, but now stands imposingly over the doctor, pleading with his eyes for information. Dr. Robinson sighs and asks Sam to take a seat, tells him exactly what Holly had about autonomic dysreflexia and the life threatening problems it can cause if not caught in time.

"In Dean's case," he continues, "the AD was caused by a delayed infection inside his trachea from the less than sterile environment when the procedure was performed, and then exacerbated by the attack a few days ago. He's apparently been trying to fight off the bacteria, but finally succumbed to it. I've put him on a high dose of antibiotics to fight the infection, and also some blood pressure medication temporarily to counter-balance the effects of his elevated blood pressure."

The news, although still scary, isn't as bad as Sam had originally anticipated and he sighs in relief, allows his shoulders to loosen up and drop slightly. "So we can prevent this in the future if he just starts to admit when he's not feeling well?"

"That's a very large part of it," Dr. Robinson agrees. "He probably could have prevented such a severe infection in itself, as well. As it is, his throat's nearly swollen shut around the breathing tube and I'm afraid swallowing will be out of the question for a while. As a result of this, I also went ahead and inserted a gastrostomy tube - a feeding tube - directly into his stomach so we can bypass his throat and still get sustenance into him."

As he explains this, the doctor pulls down the sheet covering Dean's torso and shows Sam the location of the tube sticking out just above the belly button. Sam cringes, distraught to see yet another tube coming out of his brother's body. It sticks out about six inches, is capped off at the end like his IV ports, and gauze covers the swollen area around the surgical site.

"We will let this sit for a few hours and allow Dean to recover from the mild anesthetic we administered. Later this evening the nurses will set him up for a continuous, slow drip feed. He should be consuming at least 2000 calories a day, as much as 2500, but even before this was happening your brother was barely getting 1000. He just wasn't eating enough of his meals. This will be good for him. He needs energy if he's going to stand a fighting chance at rehab."

Sam's ears perk up at that, encouraged by the doctors words. "Rehab?" Sam asks eagerly, hoping for clarification.

The doctor nods. "Of course. As soon as he's ready we need to get him admitted into a rehab hospital, need to get him sitting up in a wheelchair and learning to maneuver it, hopefully some day get him home with family that loves him."

"Oh. Right, of course." Sam's heart sinks and he tries to hide his disappointment as his eyes roam over the still, sleeping form of his now quadriplegic brother. He's still unnerved by the ventilator and the catheter, the IV's, and now the G-tube, as though his brother is merely a piece of machinery pumping fluids in and back out. He doesn't ever think he'll get used to that.

And he's sick to death of hearing about rehab, tired of the doctors redefining the word. They may as well call it coping or making do, because what they're considering rehab isn't going to make his brother better. That's not rehab. Not in Sam's book.

* * *

Dean is clearly exhausted. It takes him until the next afternoon to fight off the effects of the sedative, and even then Sam can see the glassiness that seems to have taken up residence over his brother's eyes. He's barely alert, has trouble focusing on Sam or anything else, and doesn't seem capable of keeping his eyes open for more than a few minutes at a time.

Nonetheless, Sam makes a valiant effort to pull Dean out of the fog every time he sees his brother open his eyes.

"Dean, hey there, hey Dean," Sam calls gently, leaning over the bed and putting himself well within eye sight. His thumb has taken up a permanent residence over Dean's temple, and Sam is surprised that he hasn't rubbed the spot raw yet.

He smiles as his brother blinks groggily up at him and moves his lips, maybe mouthing something. Sam convinces himself that it's his name Dean's trying to say.

"Hey now, come on, I'm getting bored sitting here all by myself. Think you can wake up and keep me company?"

Dean blinks a few more times, licks his dry lips with his sandpaper tongue, then closes his eyes again.

"Dean? Come on, man, wake up. Come on," Sam pleads, rubbing a little harder at the temple. But that's the end of it, and he soon sighs and retreats back to the chair beside the bed, resumes watching the bed rotate and listening to the ventilator and the monitors.

A little after three when Holly came on duty she'd stopped in the room to check the leads and tubes, and had pored a new can of Ensure into the slow drip dispenser that now feeds Dean almost constantly. For a while, Sam watches the thick beige glop make its way down the plastic tubing and into Dean's stomach, fascinated and disgusted all at the same time.

He almost misses hearing the soft footsteps that come into the room and stop just inside the doorway, doesn't look up until he hears the clearing of a throat.

The doctor from Dean's captivity is standing there, arms tucked up tight across her chest as she tries to pull in on herself and look as small as possible. Her eyes dart from brother to brother, resting too long on Dean as she takes everything in once again.

"Milla," Sam says rather harshly. He's forgotten about her in all the confusion of the last several days, but seeing her now - now that he knows Dean's future - brings feelings of hatred and even violence bubbling to the surface. He knows he shouldn't be angry with her, but try as he might he just can't manage to think anything but.

"Why are you here?" he demands coldly, laying a protective hand across Dean's chest.

"I– I heard," she replies timidly, hand gesturing out towards Dean and then quickly retreating back to its original position under her armpit. "Thought there might be something I could do."

"Don't you think you've done enough?"

She bites her bottom lip and takes a step closer, eyes imploring Sam to give her a chance. "I can't blame you for being angry with me. But I've done some digging and, well, it doesn't appear that the two of you have any other family to speak of. And I know how draining an injury like this can be - not just on the victim, but also on loved ones."

Sam glares at her, his steely eyed gaze slicing right through her already hesitant exterior. "Yeah? So what's your point?"

"I want to help, Sam." She spits it out, hurrying through the suggestion before she loses her nerve. "I– I know this is partly my fault, and you can't go it alone. I want to be around, give you guys a hand."

He knows he should tell her it's ok, not her fault, tell her he knows she was just a victim of circumstance and manipulation. But right now all he can think of is the idea of her touching his brother and how sick to his stomach it makes him feel. "Are you crazy?" His entire body is quivering with rage and he jumps up, forgets his knee for a minute and storms toward her. He grabs the woman roughly by the arm and drags her out of the room, away from Dean.

"You think I want you anywhere close to my brother right now?" he hisses through clenched teeth, trying to keep his voice down so he doesn't attract a crowd. "You think there's any way in hell that I'm gonna let you help take care of him? I think you better get your brain checked, lady, cause you're delusional. Think maybe Adam did more damage than we thought."

Milla flinches and pulls her arm out of Sam's grasp when he lets go, but she doesn't entirely back down. He can see her hands are shaking, and he's not sure if it's a reaction to him or if they've been shaking all along, but either way he retreats a step. The last thing he needs is for the staff on this floor to see him blow up and deny him access to Dean.

"I can see this wasn't the best time to try and talk to you," Milla says, somehow managing to compose herself and keep the tremble in her voice under control. "But my offer stands. I want to help. Please, just...just think it over."

She doesn't even make eye contact as she turns away. Sam watches her walk a few steps down the hallway, hesitate and put a hand on the wall, then continue on her way. He waits until she's out of sight before limping back into the room, knee now protesting the abrupt exercise it's been forced to endure.

Dean is still asleep, oblivious to the strange turn of events that just took place around him, and for once Sam is grateful for that. He can't imagine the emotional toil it would create for his brother to have to come face to face with Milla again. And letting her help? If the thought wasn't so downright terrifying it might just be laughable. He'll take care of his brother on his own, _thank you very much._ They'll be fine. They always are.

SUPERNATURAL

The first time Dean is really aware of his surroundings again is nearly three days later when his fever finally breaks and the doctors declare him to be on the downhill slope of fighting the infection. He soon learns of the G-tube in his stomach from Sam, and tries desperately to forget about it immediately, doesn't want to think of one more thing that's been taken from him. _Can't move, can't breath, can't talk, now I can't even eat. Useless._

'Wanna get out of here,' he mouths to Sam, face screwed up in anguish. Sam's the only one he can really talk to, the only one who understands him. As much as they try, most of the nurses can only understand a portion of what he says to them and they pretty much stick to yes or no questions. The doctors barely even try that, mostly relying on Sam for interpretation.

He's tired of it. Tired of lying in bed, tired of being sick, tired of not being able to communicate. He doesn't want to be like this, but if he has to then he wants to go somewhere where it's just him and Sam. Somewhere safe and secluded and away from all the hospital sights and sounds and smells. Somewhere where he can focus solely on getting his life back.

"I know, Dean. I want to get you out of here more than you know. I wish it were that simple."

'Don't patronize me,' Dean begs. 'Just figure it out.'

"Not this time, bro. Sorry. We gotta focus on getting you better - but that means rehab and more doctors and therapists. I want you up and walking again." _And I don't know how to take care of you,_ he silently adds.

Hearing about the G-tube was the last straw for Dean, and ever since he's felt himself sinking into a deep pit of despair. Things are clearly not getting any better – worse, if anything - and he's pretty much resigned himself to living like this for the rest of his life. If Sam wants to play optimist then fine, let him. Dean's done with it.

He looks away, blinks to ward off the push of tears he feels at the back of his eyes.

"Come on, man," Sam pleads. "Don't turn away. Don't be giving up hope, okay? Please...we'll figure this out. We will."

He says it with such conviction Dean's inclined to believe him. Almost does. But then Jeanette knocks on the door for the daily lunch routine, makes a big deal out of the fact that Dean is alert again as she sends Sam from the room. It's all too much, gets him thinking once again about all the crap they've got him hooked up to, keeping him alive.

Sam throws out one more mournful, "Dean, please," as he leaves the room but Dean can't bring himself to look at his brother. His eyes glisten with tears as he keeps his head turned away as far as it can go and he has to bite his lip to keep it from trembling.

"What was that all about?" Jeanette asks gently. She's sitting on the edge of the bed, arms braced straight on either side of him as she gazes down with concern.

Dean blinks furiously, swallows down the lump in his throat, and hates himself for the fact that he's crying - in front of a woman no less - and he can't do a damn thing about it. 'Nothing,' he mouths. He doesn't look at her until he feels her soft hands press on either side of his face, but he can't help the look of relief that comes across at the contact and he finally directs his gaze to her.

"I'm here if you need to talk," Jeanette tells him, using her thumbs to nudge the tears away. She pretends not to notice, and he's grateful for that, but it still hurts to know his emotions are just as out of his control as the rest of his body.

He blinks twice for 'no' and leaves it at that, doesn't even try to explain away the situation.

They sit like that for another minute or so, Dean just relishing the feel of contact while Jeanette's expression urges him to open up to her. Finally she sighs, accepting things as they are, and pulls away. "You know the drill. You ready?"

Emotions still running high, Dean can only blink his grudging approval before he squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to think about this routine.

Lunch is no longer a part of it, replaced instead by another can of Ensure being fed into the dispenser. He never thought he would miss eating the bland hospital food they'd insisted on feeding him, but he's already yearning for the too thin mashed potatoes and the sticky oatmeal. Now, the only satisfaction that he gets from food is the slight feeling of fullness that just barely manages to slip past the paralyzed synapses into his brain. And even that comes with a price as it will inevitably lead to another humiliating bowel routine.

* * *

When Sam returns they both pretend that the earlier conversation didn't happen, and instead fall into an uneasy silence that is filled only by the sounds of the television and, of course, Dean's machinery. At some point, Dean glances over at his brother and realizes that Sam isn't actually watching the TV but rather is staring at him, his hands more precisely, as they rest crossed against his stomach as he was last left.

He watches Sam right back, frustrated as the bed continues to rotate on its frame making it close to impossible to get his brother's attention. But finally, on the third rotation, Sam catches sight of Dean's eyes on him and he breaks his trance. "You okay?"

'You're staring,' Dean mouths. 'Why?'

Sam shrugs, drags his hands through his hair nervously, and lies. "Nothing. I just...I thought...It's nothing, Dean."

'Sam?' Even as incapacitated as he is, Dean is still perfectly capable of getting his point across with facial expressions, and this time is no different. He demands truth with one word and a steely look, and Sam shrinks back.

"I thought I saw something," Sam says, sighing heavily. "But it wasn't what I thought. Just...go back to the show. I'm sorry."

For now, Dean lets it go. He rolls his eyes, but looks back up at the screen mounted from the ceiling and tries to ignore his brother, who doesn't avert his gaze from Dean's hand.

Ten more minutes go by, the end of one show and the beginning of another, yet Sam hasn't once looked up at the TV. And then Sam leans forward, arms bumping into the bed, and mere seconds later he's literally shrieking with delight as he jumps from his seat and dances awkwardly in front of Dean.

In an afterthought, Sam reaches out and hits the switch on the bed, bringing it to an abrupt halt. He's babbling wildly, screaming, "you did it! I knew it - knew you could. This is great!"

Dean stares at his little brother in shocked wonderment, trying desperately to decipher the rambling excitement. But honestly, Dean has no idea what the hell Sam is talking about, and truth be told his little brother is looking a little bit on the lock 'em down crazy side of things. He can't even catch his eye to ask him what the hell he's so all over the place about, not really sure what there is exactly to be all happy about anyway.

"We've gotta get someone in here," Sam is saying now, obviously talking to himself because he sure as hell hasn't been talking to Dean for the last couple of minutes. "Do you think you can do it again? Could you show the doctors, Dean?"

_I don't know what the hell you think I did in the first place!_ Dean thinks to himself, couldn't relay the question even if he _could_ speak since Sam hasn't once looked down at his face since this whole thing started. And then his little brother is out the door and hollering down the hall to anyone who'll listen that he's got something great to show them.

_Just wish I knew what it is I'm supposed to be doing._

It isn't long before Sam has a whole team of medical personnel gathered around Dean's bed, all looking expectantly down at their bewildered patient. Jeanette comes, and another nurse who has checked in on Dean a time or two. Dr. Prentiss is back on call today, so he's here with his arms crossed sternly against his chest, and he's brought with him two new nameless, voiceless med students who stand back in the shadows but try and cran their necks around the gathering crowd to see the show.

Prentiss takes control of the situation, leaning over Dean and scowling. "Your brother says he saw you move your finger, Dean. Can you show us?"

_I did? I don't think..._ Dean's eyebrows scrunch in confusion as he stretches his gaze down to his right hand where he can just barely make out the tips of the fingers.

He puts forth every ounce of concentration he's got, willing and pleading and begging the fingers to move, to twitch. Hell, just to flicker. Sam says he saw them move; that's why they've got this big crowd gathered around. And if Sam says he saw it then it must be true. Right?

But they don't move. Nothing. And when Dean looks back up to apologize he first lands his gaze on Sam's desperate face, the look of determination and sheer will, and he can't stand to be the one to let his baby brother down.

Looking back down at his fingers, this time Dean prays and bargains, promises to go to church five days a week and say the rosary every hour on the hour if he can just move one damn finger. For Sam. Always for Sam.

It's actually Jeanette who breaks into the tense silence of the room. She steps forward and leans over Dean, blocking his view of his hand as she embraces his cheeks with her warm hands. "Dean, honey, you can stop now. I don't think it's going to happen."

He looks back at her, tears glistening on the surface. 'Sam says it happened,' he mouths desperately. 'If I can just–"

"Shhhh shh shh, it's okay, Dean. We'll try it again later. Maybe you're just tired."

Prentiss is already standing, turning to leave the room with his entourage, and he makes a gesture towards Sam for him to follow them out. Hands in pockets, shoulders slumped, Sam does just that as Jeanette tends to Dean.

Dean wants to call out to them, tell them to come back, that he can do better - _will_ do better. He's got a million thoughts running through his head about the possibility that maybe he'd moved his hand a few minutes earlier, and that maybe it was a fluke - a one time deal. He wants to apologize, to ask questions, needs to talk to Sam about this and find out exactly what he saw. But no one turns to look at him, and he's lost in the silence of the ventilator. He watches as the doctor leaves and the students. And Sam.

And then he can't hold his tears back any longer and he begins to cry, noiselessly and effortlessly. His chest doesn't hitch up and he never loses his breath, doesn't make a sound. But the tears fall all the same and Jeanette is there to comfort him, hands stroking over his face and carding through his hair, using tissues to dry his eyes as she whispers soothing words of comfort and hope.

SUPERNATURAL

Out in the hallway Prentiss sends his students away and turns to glare at Sam, arms crossed tightly across his chest. "What the hell was that little show you just put on in there?" he demands angrily. He keeps his teeth clenched and his voice down, but the ire is noticeable regardless.

"I saw his finger move," Sam protests. "I did. It twitched. I swear it."

"No it didn't," Prentiss spits. "You know it, and I know it."

"Honest. It did!"

Prentiss sighs, comes out with a voice that's about as compassionate as he can muster which, to be honest, isn't much, but still he tries. "Look kid, I know you want your brother to get better. But getting his hopes up over movements that aren't there and cures that aren't possible is only making things worse for him. You're giving him unrealistic expectations, making him strive for a future that includes him walking. You need to get him to see the truth, Sam. _You_ need to see the truth."

Sam shakes his head, meeting the doctor steely eyed gaze for steely eyed gaze. "I'm sorry, doc, I just can't do that. I can't accept that there's no hope."

"Well you're going to have to accept something, Sam. You've got to at least accept that this is as good as he is right now. Learn to deal with the here and now, and then, sometime in the future if - and I _mean __**if**_** - **Dean somehow manages to start improving _then_ you deal with that. But right now you're just making things a hundred times worse. For Dean..._and_ for yourself."

"I can't let him give up hope!" Sam protests, leaving out the need to keep his own hope alive as well.

But Prentiss just sighs again and shakes his head. "A little bit of hope is alright. But this, Sam, this idea that you're convincing yourself he's making gains where there are none is unhealthy. There's a difference between giving up hope and learning to deal with the present. No one is saying you have to be giving up entirely; we're just saying that you need to move forward with what you've got right now. And what you've g–"

Sam opens his mouth to protest, but Prentiss is quick to hold a hand up in the air and put a halt to it. He forges on, picking up where he left off. "What you've got, Sam, is a brother who can't move his body from the neck down and can't breathe without mechanical support. He'll be confined to a bed or a wheelchair for the rest of his life. He's going to need round the clock care and support - something I don't think you're emotionally ready or able to provide, quite honestly. This is the time when you have to be looking into rehab hospitals and equipment and trying to find ways to make his life easier, ways to make _your_ life easier. But right now you're so focused on chasing pipe dreams that you're unable to actually _think_ about anything pertinent."

The words sting, but not nearly as much as the truth they convey, and it's all Sam can do to keep his composure in front of the doctor. It's no secret that he wants Dean back the way he was before, but he can't deny the fact that helping his brother, doing everything in his power to make all of this okay, needs to come first. And he can't make things okay if he's constantly running around pretending that things aren't what they are. As much as he hates to admit it, Prentiss is right. He owes it to Dean to accept fact, to work with what they have and focus on dealing with that.

There's been talk on the floor about his brother being discharged within the week, sending him to a rehab facility or a nursing home. Sam has ignored it for the most part, pretended they were talking about another Dean, another patient. When the nurses address the subject point blank he brushes it off and convinces himself that it is weeks down the road, months even. He'll deal with it later. Always later.

But apparently, Later is now. And as much as he wants to run away and find a corner to cry in, it's time that he man up and face facts.

Dean's got a new life. One where he's paralyzed.

_Quadriplegic_.

The word tastes bitter in his mouth. He wants to spit it out, step on it like a used piece of chewing gum. But instead he forces himself to say it again.

_Dean is a quadriplegic. A ventilator dependent quadriplegic. _

Saying it over and over doesn't really make it better, but it makes it easier to swallow, easier to wrap his mind around it and go for the next step.

"What do I have to do?" He doesn't even realize he's talking out loud until he takes notice of Prentiss' double take, surprise at Sam's about face on the subject.

There's a pause as the doctor composes himself and reprograms for the new, cooperative Sam. "For starters, you begin researching rehab hospitals. Make a decision as to whether you're going to use one near here or whether you're going to take him somewhere else. I can give you recommendations, but you have to decide what's best for Dean. And for you."

Sam nods, over eager. "Ok, ok, I can do that. What else?"

"Um...," for a change Prentiss seems out of his element, as though he's not used to having these types of conversations, and Sam can't help but wonder how often the over-zealous doctor pawns these conversations onto other, unsuspecting doctors after he's performed his "miracle" surgeries.

_Lotta good that did Dean. _

"You also need to take a more active role in Dean's care, start to learn what's needed to sustain him in day to day life. I've noticed you leave every time the nurses come for procedures."

"That's because he kicks me out. He doesn't want me in there," Sam protests. He hates to say it, hates to admit that there's something Dean doesn't need him for, doesn't want him to see. But he hasn't exactly put up much of a fight, either. Sure, he goes through the motions. Says the obligatory protests, _You sure you don't want me to stay? 'Cause I will if you want me to. _But in the end, Sam's never really been too upset about being told to leave. He hates to leave _Dean_, but he never really wanted to see all that other stuff. It's too real, too final. Too much of this new life that he doesn't want to accept.

Prentiss shrugs and begins to back away, apparently having decided his work is finished. "You'll just have to work it out between the two of you."

With a final glance toward Dean's closed door, Prentiss turns on his heel and stalks off down the hall, leaving a shell-shocked Sam in his wake. Sam just stands there, watches the man disappear before he stumbles back against the wall. His knees give out and he sinks down to the floor, head in hands and fighting tears. "What the hell am I supposed to do?" he whispers, voice choked with emotion.

It could be seconds or minutes that he sits on the floor desperately seeking out an answer that doesn't come to him. Eventually, he hears Dean's door open and Jeanette emerges. She seems a bit rattled, and a lot annoyed, as she addresses Sam a little too curtly. "He's finally calmed down." She doesn't say the rest, doesn't tell him to watch what he says or does from here on out, and she doesn't have to. Sam gets it.

He screwed up; big time.

He just nods and staggers to his feet, deciding it's now or never. _Gotta face him sometime._

Jeanette hasn't restarted the bed yet so Dean can very conveniently keep his head turned away, his eyes averted. Whether he knows it's Sam whose just entered the room or whether he just isn't acknowledging anyone, Sam isn't sure, but he doesn't look. He's deathly still, worse even than normal these days, and if it weren't for the mechanical rise and fall of his chest and the beeping of the heart monitor Sam might have wondered if...no, he's not going there.

"Dean?" It comes out in a hoarse whisper, hesitant and weak. Sam clears his throat and tries again when he gets no response.

"Dean." He walks closer to the bed, puts his hand on his brother's bare chest, and regrets it instantly. _Stupid! _Moving the hand upward, across Dean's neck and then onto his face Sam feels an instant flare of remorse as he watches the contact cause his brother to flinch and draw away.

The movement isn't much, only the little bit he's able, but Sam gets it and he, regretfully, removes his hand. Suddenly he isn't sure what to do with it and he flops it about for a while before finally stuffing it into his jeans pocket.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean–" Sam stops, unsure where to go with that statement. The words seem so insignificant, so meaningless in the grand scheme of things. _I know I got your hopes up that you could freakin _move_ again. Didn't really mean it. Sorry 'bout that, bro._ _I'll try to do better next time._

A closer look at his brother fills Sam with a realization that he's been fighting for sometime now. Adam and Lori Ann didn't just take Dean's mobility from him with their sick, sadistic form of payback. No, they took a lot more.

Watching his brother now, Sam can see him fighting off a well of emotion that he usually keeps hidden deep inside of himself. It's all bubbling to the surface now, the pain and the toil of being kept prisoner in his own body forcing what little he has left to the top. He can't fight it the way he used to do, can't even control it.

Dean's face is set in a stone of desperation, mouth held tight to ward off the trembles. He blinks compulsively, but tears have managed to surface despite his best efforts to keep them at bay, and his eyes are rimmed red. He's been crying, Sam can tell, and he's trying desperately not to continue.

"Dean, please," Sam begs. He wants to sit down, but knows his only chance of Dean seeing him, seeing any of him, is to remain standing, within sight out of the corner of his brother's eye. He moves to the foot of the bed and leans over top of it, arms propping himself up on the wooden frame at the base. "I hate myself for doing that to you," Sam begins. "I just...I want so much for you to get better. I think, maybe, that I just finally managed to convince myself that I was seeing things that weren't really happening."

He's not exactly sure what he expects from his brother. _'It's okay, Sam. I forgive you'_ would be really nice, but not really logical. And it's not exactly in Dean's nature to yell at him and blame him for things. So he isn't too shocked when Dean's response is a big, fat, nothing. He remains unresponsive, eyes squeezed shut against the tears and head turned minutely away from Sam, biting his quivering lower lip compulsively.

Once again Sam reaches a hand out to Dean, lets it hover mere inches away from his brother's face for several seconds before jerking it away. He'd like nothing more than for his touch to offer comfort, for his words to be the right ones. But Dean isn't in that mind set right now, and Sam put him there, and right now there's no way he's bringing him back.

"I guess I'm gonna let you get some rest," Sam says, realizing there's really nothing else _to_ say. Apologies only sound like excuses, and excuses sound like cries for forgiveness. And Sam knows he doesn't deserve his brother's forgiveness. Not after what he's just put him through, not after throwing all that hope out to him only to tear it from his grasp with a mighty jerk.

Sam flips the switch for the bed and waits for the gears to start back up, for the bed to resume its rotation, before he crosses to the easy chair in the corner of the room. He isn't able to bring himself to leave the room entirely, but knows Dean needs some time to himself nonetheless. So Sam curls up facing the wall, back to his brother, and just lays there. The thoughts and realizations of the past hour begin to sink in, ramifications of his actions flash through his mind and questions of where to go next and what to do start building up. Now that he's actually come to grips with their situation there's so much that needs to be done, and Sam has no idea where to even start.

He's never needed his big brother more than he needs him now. But despite their close proximity to one another, they're farther apart than ever. It doesn't matter how much Sam needs Dean. He's got to figure this one out on his own.

SUPERNATURAL

Days pass and Dean finally gives in and forgives Sam. It's more out of desperation and loneliness than anything else, but when Sam is the only one who understands him, the only one with the patience to sit for hours and have a conversation with him when he can't even make a sound, Dean quickly learns that forgiving his brother is in his best interest. It's the only thing that will keep him sane.

When he really gets down to thinking about it he can't exactly blame Sam for his reaction. Dean's been imagining that he's better for days now, in that time just after he wakes up and before he opens his eyes. He imagines he can move his fingers, can feel the pressure of air filling his lungs once again, can wiggle his toes. The only difference between himself and Sam is that Sam was able to jump up and run away, could convince himself that things were different because he wasn't actually living it. Truth be told, Dean won't deny he would react any differently if their situations were reversed.

So one day he finally answers Sam when he asks Dean how he is that morning. It's short and succinct, one word. But it's a start.

He moves on from there, replying with short sentences. And finally begins asking questions of his own again, initiating conversation. It isn't long before they fall once again into the brotherly banter that they're so used to. Sure, it would be better if it came out in full surround sound instead of the volume coming out through only one speaker, but it's better than nothing.

Dean is slowly getting used to sitting more upright and the hospital staff has swapped beds so that he's now on one that looks slightly more normal with a combination of air pressure and sand underneath the mattress to help avoid the pressure sores instead of the rotating contraption he's been in. This one has more mattress flexibility, too, and they've got Dean sitting upright at a 30 degree angle, propped up by pillows on all sides. They've got him in a stiff Philadelphia neck brace with a hole in front for the vent. The muscles in his neck are too weak to hold his head up alone, and the further he manages to sit up in bed the more he needs the brace for support.

Sam has his chair turned so that he's facing Dean, back to the TV, and they're discussing the finer points of the nursing staff and the difference between the nurses on the ICU and those on the neuro-floor when someone knocks on the door.

"Door's open," Sam calls out without even looking up. They've gotten so used to people coming in at all hours of the day and night, and Dean has noticed that Sam no longer gets up unless it's absolutely necessary.

He winks at Dean and makes some smartass comment about one of the college aged candy stripers that is always coming around peddling magazines and crossword puzzles. Dean can't help but smile at that, knowing exactly the girl he's talking about. But his smile quickly wanes as footsteps approach from the little alcove near the door and he comes face to face with the doctor zombon. That gets Sam's attention, and he turns around.

"Milla?" Sam says, teeth clenched and anger escalating quickly. "I thought we'd been over this already. You're not welcome here."

Dean's not entirely sure what she's here for, but he knows he has to calm Sam down first, needs to hear her out before they throw her out. When Sam turns to offer an apologetic look Dean is quick to start talking, the look of desperation that keeps his little brother's attention.

'She can stay. Hear her out.' Dean mouths to his brother. He isn't too surprised when Sam makes him repeat himself, the look of disbelief on his little brother's face enough to tell Dean that Sam doesn't believe what he's asking.

"Let her stay?" Sam asks, incredulously. "Dean, you can't be serious."

_'_Not her fault._'_ Dean mouths. _'_Victim, too.'

"She's the reason you're like this!" Sam protests frantically. "She _did_ this to you."

'No, Adam did this. She was a pawn._'_

"It was still her hands that threaded the wire, still her that hooked you up to the pulley system."

_'_Mind control, Sam. You've been there.' Dean is determined, eyes steely and controlled. _'_Our responsibility.'

"What's our responsibility?" Sam demands. "Right now my only responsibility is figuring out how to get you the best care possible. My responsibility is getting you better. I have no other responsibility."

"That's actually why I'm here," Milla interrupts, drawing both sets of eyes back to her. She continues before Sam has the chance to stop her. "They told me at the nurse's station that you hadn't decided on a rehab hospital yet. I called in a favor; got you an opening at the top rehab hospital in the state. It's called New Beginnings, and it just so happens it's only about 20 minutes from here." She's looking straight at Dean, begging him for forgiveness, pleading with him to say he's grateful, or thanks, or even just ok.

"I already looked into that hospital," Sam says coldly. "It's a private facility. We can't afford it."

Dean feels his gut clench, can see it's killing his brother to say that. Sam has talked to Dean endlessly about his search for rehab hospitals, has talked extensively about the fact that they can't financially afford the good places, can't risk the poor care he'll get at the bad ones. None of their fake insurance will hold out long enough for Dean to get the full effect of therapy, which means paying out of pocket. And the cold hard fact of the matter is that they don't have any money. Even if he could find the money for New Beginnings the wait list is months long, yet here it is being handed to them on a silver platter. Dean has no doubt Sam clearly wants what's best for him, will do whatever it takes to do that. And lord knows this is what's best. If Dean stands any chance at all of regaining his life this is the place to go.

"Then let me cover it," she volunteers far too quickly, too desperately. "I can work something out with them; I'm sure of it. Please, you have to let me do this."

Something softens inside of Sam at the woman's words. Not a lot, mind you, but Dean sees a change in his brother's demeanor, and he plays off of it. 'Hear her out_',_ he insists when Sam looks at him for guidance.

"Why do you want to help us so badly?" he asks, more gently this time.

She doesn't even hesitate. "Because I couldn't before. Because there was nothing I could do under Adam's spell, but I can do something about it now."

That seems to chisel away at Sam's toughened exterior even more. Dean knows it's softened him up more to the woman. In a way he can see where Sam's coming from, understands the hatred his brother seems to harbor for this woman. And it's not as though Dean isn't pissed as hell over what happened to him. But he saw the way she acted when he was in captivity, could see her fighting against something the whole time...and losing. He knows it's no more her fault than it is his own. Which, he supposes, makes it easier to carry more compassion for her.

Still wary, Sam broaches his next question cautiously, diplomatically. "Suppose we do go along with what you're suggesting. What exactly _are_ you offering here?"

Milla noticeably relaxes and sinks onto the small stool the doctor's normally use when they're talking to Dean and Sam. "I'm offering as much help as you'll allow me to give," she says timidly, wringing her hands around themselves as her eyes dart back and forth between each brother. "I'm a neurosurgeon, so I know all about SCI's. I can offer advice and information. I can get you into a good rehab facility. More importantly, I can offer you a place to stay." She looks straight at Sam as she says the last part and Dean directs his eyes to watch his little brother's reaction.

"I can stay with Dean," Sam says, as though the idea of him being anywhere else is pure nonsense. Dean has to admit, he can't imagine not sleeping in the same room as his brother; not before, and especially not now. And clearly Sam feels the same way.

Milla shakes her head apologetically. "Not in rehab you can't. They won't allow it."

"Then I'll get a hotel," Sam replies. He's quick on the response even though the reality of the situation clearly unnerves him. It does Dean, too.

"For 3 to 5 months?" Milla questions. "That's a lot of money. Especially when I'm offering you a place in my home for free."

"Sometimes there's more at stake than money."

She chuckles nervously, and her voice comes out shaky. "What do you expect me to do, Sam? What do you think is going to happen?"

"We don't accept charity," Sam says, trying to be tactful. But when he sees her skepticism at that response, he adds, "and I'm not entirely certain I can trust myself to be around you that much."

Dean notices the slight flinch Milla has towards that comment, but she recovers quickly. He guesses she must have prepared herself for abrasive comments, for a fight. "I'm not asking you to keep me company," she tells Sam. "If all you want to do is sleep there, that's your business. I just want–" she pauses, amends her comment, "I need to do everything I can to help. I think it's the only way I'll be able to come to terms with all of this."

She doesn't say 'forgive herself,' Dean realizes, and he wonders if she ever will. Wonders if he could ever completely forgive her, even knowing that none of this is truly her fault.

Sam looks back at Dean, desperation in his eyes as he begs his brother for guidance. Dean nods, almost imperceptibly, but the message is clear. _It's okay. Take her up on the offer. Give her a chance._

Sighing, Sam drops his head into his hands for a few seconds, then drags his hands down his face, his neck, and lets out a pent up breath of air. It's clear he doesn't like the situation, but just as clear that he realizes he's got no other choice.

"My brother deserves the best treatment available," Sam says, finally looking at Milla again. He's almost staring her down, his gaze is so intense. "The things we do, the people we've helped...he shouldn't go down like this. It's not fair."

Dean feels tears invading the corners of his eyes, and he blinks them back. It's hard hearing Sam's words, knowing how true they are. He's always been prepared for the inevitable, but the inevitable - to Dean - has always been death. Not this. Never this.

"This place, this...New Beginnings. It's the best chance Dean has?"

Milla flinches again, and Dean can see she's warring with herself over details left unsaid. But she finally just gives a nod, chooses her next words very carefully. "They'll do everything possible to give Dean independence."

The unspoken words are almost as loud as the spoken ones. Dean won't ever go back to how he was; will never walk again or hunt again, will most likely never even breathe on his own again. Independence, the type of independence Milla is talking about, involves learning to control his wheelchair by himself and maybe being able to be left alone for a while without panicking that something may go wrong. The people at rehab will do their job, and they'll do it well. But it won't be about getting him back on his feet. He hears her loud and clear, but obviously Sam doesn't. And for that, Dean is grateful.

He tunes the rest of the conversation out. He's done his part, gotten Sam the help he needs whether he likes it or not. Milla will prove herself to be a good ally, despite the reasons they've come to know her, and Sam needs all the people he can get in his corner right now.

But Dean doesn't want to hear the finer points of moving to the rehab hospital, doesn't want to hear how Sam will have to find somewhere else to stay, that they'll be separated for hours a day and all night long, over the next several months.

He's not sure how much longer Milla stays after that, but he knows when she leaves. She draws him back, this time going the distance and placing her warm, gentle hand on his cheek to say goodbye, and thank you. He stares back at her, unsure what she's thanking him for and unable to acknowledge it, instead blinks his eyes and bites his lip as he continues to fight back tears that seem unwilling to relent.

_Watch out for my brother_, Dean finally pleads of her, finding relief when she seems to understand him on the first try.

"I can't fix what's happened," she replies, doesn't even try to mask the sorrow in her expression. "But I can make the rest of this a little bit easier. You're both in good hands. I hope you know that."

In time, he's sure he'll come to trust it. But the emotions are still too raw right now and Dean can't bring himself to accept her statement just yet. Although he does find comfort in the fact that she seems genuine, honest, hopeful.

SUPERNATURAL

The next day starts like all the other ones before. Sam wakes up to the rattling of the suction hose, keeping his eyes shut tightly at the sound of it. He knows that there will be a time when he has to follow Dr. Prentiss' words and start participating in his brother's care, but that's not today. His nerves are still too raw from everything that went on this week and helping a nurse do all these… things to Dean is something that Sam can't think about now, not when his brother is so obviously against the mere idea of it. Dean is a stubborn bastard and it takes a lot of energy to stand up against his wishes; besides, there are other, more urgent things to do today.

He waits for the nurse to finish with the first part of the routine, and then it's his turn to officially wake up, with a little careful stretch, then to participate in their little "Want-me-to-help-No-Sure-Yes" ritual and then to disappear for the bathroom and later for a cup of coffee and breakfast downstairs.

It takes more and more energy to get up every day. Almost four weeks have passed since that night at the abandoned school and that makes it 25 nights Sam has slept on the easy chair in Dean's room, worrying about too many things at once, watching how his brother's life fell apart, and he doesn't even want to think about what Dean must have suffered all this time.

By now the muscles in Sam's back are sore almost all the time. Apparently, all those hours he was asleep in the passenger seat of the Impala – and god, it hurts to think about the car, the road, their past- didn't prepare him for night after night after night on a piece of furniture that was obviously designed for someone at least a foot shorter than him. Every morning, he wakes up with a back that feels like rock and legs that are still asleep and the knowledge that Dean feels nothing at all - and that is the worst.

Sam waits until the door to Dean's room is securely closed before he starts stretching in earnest, trying to work out as many kinks as possible before he has to be back. These days he's careful with moving too overtly in front of Dean, doesn't want to remind him of what he's lost –_temporarily_, Sam's mind insists, _it's only temporary, Dean will be fine_.

He spends some time in the bathroom, where he splashes cold water in his face, brushes his teeth and ponders his new attitude. Suddenly, there are all these decisions to make, and a new responsibility of finally having something to do instead of moping around in Dean's room, combined with the stern talk he got from Dr. Prentiss, have woken up Sam from a stupor he didn't even know he was in.

Now, future seems to be something that starts the day after tomorrow, when they'll transfer Dean to the rehab clinic. The spot at New Beginnings that Milla has secured for them has a tight time frame. Favors can only get you so far and thus they'll have to take Dean there at the end of the week.

So far, Dean hasn't been wearing clothes, to make his care routine easier; still something tells Sam that the rehab hospital might require pants at least, considering that the people grinning from the cover of that expensive looking brochure all wear track pants or something similar. He still only has a vague idea what rehab will actually mean for his brother. Maybe a sort of physiotherapy? Whatever it will be, there is a tiny problem.

Dean Winchester doesn't own a single pair of track pants.

SUPERNATURAL

It takes some of Sam's inherited Winchester willpower to wander down to the cafeteria and from there to the little smokers' porch in front of the door where cell phones are allowed and it takes even more to dial Milla's number. He doesn't want her help and he hates it that he needs her help, but he has no choice in this. Therefore, he reluctantly waits for her to answer the phone, cursing because he just realized that it's ridiculously early in the morning and she's probably still asleep.

Milla answers the phone after two rings and she doesn't sound sleepy at all but rather like someone who's been up for ages, waiting for an important call, and now has that specific breathlessness of sprinting across a room to get to the phone in time.

"Hi, it's me… Sam. Listen, I need your help with something. Can you meet me at the hospital, the cafeteria? Around lunch time, maybe?"

She agrees so quickly and wholeheartedly that Sam can't help but thaw the tiniest little bit. He knows she's hurting, but, damn it, Dean is definitely suffering the most and it was her… No, no, he won't think about it, not when he'll have to spend at least some hours of this day with her. So, Sam gets a cup of coffee and something that vaguely resembles a sandwich and makes his way upstairs to Dean's room again, where he waits another five minutes in front of the closed door. He knows the nurse has finished the morning routine by now, but better safe than sorry and he's pretty sure that Dean needs these few moments on his own.

They spend the next few hours watching TV, just like every other day before. Sam pays even less attention than he usually does, at the same time trying hard not to look at Dean's hands. He's still not sure if he really saw movement or not, but he doesn't want to risk seeing anything before Dean is ready to repeat the action in front of the doctors. Soon enough, Sam has sunken into a deep daydream; how Dean moves first one finger, then two; the unbelieving, shocked expression on Dr. Prentiss' face and Sam's "I told you so" and Dean breathing on his own, later therapy and finally, them together, back in the car, still hunting evil things in the dark and all this, all this horrible scary crap in too bright hospital rooms is forgotten as if it never happened.

Time goes by so much faster when you're lost in your thoughts and Sam startles from his dream world the moment he first hears the lunch trolley on the corridor. He still hasn't told Dean about his little plan yet, there just wasn't the right moment for it and he really doesn't want to upset Dean more than he already has.

So Sam runs his hand through his hair several times, shuffles a little in his seat and then he stands up, mumbles something about "Errand to run… clothes…stuff" and leaves the room.

Milla is already waiting for him in the cafeteria.

SUPERNATURAL

Dean tensly watches as the nurse connects another feeding drip to the tube in his stomach and then he relaxes while she starts to do things to his feet that are slightly out of his range of view. He didn't exactly understand what Sam mumbled just before he left the room, but strongly suspects that his brother went to do some laundry, and that means some alone time for Dean - at least an hour of precious being on his own – without Sam lurking and babbling nonsense of getting better.

Dean knows, and has known from the beginning, that there will be no recovery. Even if he likes to pretend that _it_ never happened, even if he does nothing to stop Sam from dreaming, knowing full well that he's encouraging his little brother's self-conceit, Dean is a realist, and as a realist he knows that there is no coming back from an injury like his, not without a little supernatural help.

But there's no way that Dean will give in to another visit to a faith healer, not if it means that someone else could get burdened with his fate, and the demon option is just completely out of the question. Seriously, nothing good ever came from messing with fate, so no miracle cure this time, thank you very much, because if it has to be someone than it should rather be Dean than anyone else. He can only hope that he got it into Sam's thick skull that he wants nothing less than another fucked up demon deal. After all, there's still a final way out of this mess, one that Dean will think about sooner or later. Maybe sooner.

Time passes as Dean ponders all this, letting his thoughts run wild; thoughts that inevitably return to Layla Rourke's beautiful face, to his father, to Sam. And speaking of, where is Sam? Almost two hours have passed since he left at feeding time, he really should be back by now, at least for a check in. Where the hell is he? He'd better be back before Oprah's on, because the TV's off and obviously, Dean can't turn it on himself.

Suddenly, Dean is missing the touch of a ginormous hand on his forehand, a thumb stroking his temple, Sam's smile of "I know you'll make it", and almost immediately, he feels himself close up against that surge of emotion. Really, what would his father think if he saw him like this, helpless and needy?

But he needs people now; there is nothing he can do to change that, and most of all he needs Sam. Sam, who has gone who knows where to do something unintelligible to clothes. It really shouldn't come as a surprise, this startling realization of just how much he is dependent on his brother, not after almost a month. Yet, it was almost a month with Sam constantly at his side, only leaving when nurses were around or Dean was asleep. Now, with Sam gone that long, the solitude that Dean has craved turns into a new kind of hell, more painful than everything he has felt since he first woke up in the hospital.

It's so hard to know that you can't move or do things, but if you have someone to do them for you, then you at least you can still get things done.

But alone?

A black hole opens, when Dean realizes for the first time that there really is absolutely nothing he can do on his own. And then this overwhelming craving for body contact. He'll never ever tell Sam about this, never. When Sam comes back, he'll.. And then a new, terrible thought rips Dean apart like a knife and Lori Ann's words echo in his mind. _If_. _If Sam comes back_...

SUPERNATURAL

Sam's and Milla's greeting in the cafeteria consists of a small wave, a nod and a lot of feet shuffling, followed by one of the most uncomfortable silences of Sam's life. He tries desperately to hold himself back and keep this whole endeavor as civil as possible, while his previous behavior seems to have intimidated Milla to the point of speechlessness. Thus they wander to her car without a word between them, and it takes some time in the little red Ford on their way to the nearest Target for Milla to find the courage to speak up. "What exactly did you have in mind then?"

Sam sighs, but keeps his eyes glued to the road. "I'm not really sure. He'll need stuff to wear. I thought you might know what to get." He pauses before he comes out with the most difficult part and turns slightly to look at her. "And I'm completely out of money. So, could you lend me some? Just for the time?"

Milla's face is filled with understanding and something else that Sam can only think of as fierce determination as she nods her agreement. "Sure. He'll get whatever he needs; you don't really have to ask for it, ok? Whatever I can do or give, it's his..."

Again, Sam is taken aback by her eagerness to help. So taken aback in fact that a tiny smile escapes his icy exterior, together with an almost inaudible thank you. Milla responds with a fractionally bigger smile, but Sam notices that her hands, tightly gripping the steering wheel, are trembling like an aspen leaf. "Are you cold?" he asks astounded, because it's as warm as it can be on a sunny day in late May. Very warm, actually.

She grimaces, but doesn't look at him, keeps her eyes on the road as Sam did before. "No", she finally answers in a clipped voice that clearly conveys that she doesn't want to talk about it, "I'm just ... they say it's a PTSD thing. You know, post traumatic stress disorder. My hands... sometimes, I just can't stop them from shaking like this."

"Oh", Sam can't think of much else to say at this revelation. A tiny voice inside him is laughing and whispering "Yes, she deserves this, only fair after what she did...", but a much larger part of him can't help but feel for her. Something like this must really suck, especially for a surgeon.

"Yep, sure does", she says and Sam realizes that he actually said the last part out loud. "But sometimes I think that it's only fair, you know." She changes gears to stop at a red light. "After what I did to him..."

They remain silent for the rest of the drive, the only interruption when Sam points out a good parking spot. Then they stand in front of the first aisle and Sam remembers once again why he needed her - apart from the ride.

"So, what do we actually need?"

She frowns a little, and Sam thinks that her hands relax slightly, now there is an actual task at hand. But then again, he's not the best judge for hand movement these days.

"Well, the obvious.** Sweatpants and zip up hoodies, some plain t-shirts but mostly button up shirts. Warm socks that don't constrict at the elastic. Tennis shoes slightly bigger than necessary so his feet slide in easily - scrunched up toes happen far too often and are a nightmare for dysreflexia issues. Loose boxers for sleeping in at rehab. An electric toothbrush to make it easier for someone to brush his teeth. Lotion - paralyzed limbs tend to get very dry skin because there isn't as much contact to slough off the dead skin. Lotion helps a lot. Maybe a good blanket in place of a jacket, especially for the immediate future." **

**She counts it all off on her fingers as though she's gone through this list hundreds of times with patients, families, and when she's done she points off to the left of the store and says, "we'll want to start over there."**

**So they get a shopping cart and soon enough it starts filling up with stuff. There are cotton track suits in grey and navy blue, one in a dark green that Milla insists on with a "Believe me; it will look great with his eyes." Sam couldn't care less about his brother's eye color, he's more occupied with other things, like, Dean getting well again, for example, but he still allows her to take it. They find underwear and socks, and in the next aisle Sam notices that behind his back Milla has replaced the cheap black cotton socks that Sam had chosen with warm woolen ones that are about three times as expensive. He picks them up and turns to take them back, when her small trembling hand holds him back by the arm. "Please," she says. "They are better. Better for him." **

**Oh, and Sam wants nothing but the best for Dean, in fact he's so filled with things he wants for Dean that he feels like exploding, but still – he just can't get too indebted and especially not too her. **

**Milla takes her hand away, but her eyes remain pleading. "Don't let your pride hold him back, Sam." And just when he wants to snarl at her that she understands ****_absolutely nothing_****, she adds "You know what? The socks can be a treat. Pay me back on the rest, but these are my get well present for him. No charity involved, alright?" And Sam reigns himself and agrees; then they split up to get the rest, Sam to electronics for the toothbrush and Milla for the lotion. **

SUPERNATURAL

Meanwhile, Dean knows that with too many thoughts at the same time, and no way to release some of the stress he'll eventually go crazy. Would Sam leave him like this, with just a little not-even-a-real-sentence for a goodbye?

Absolutely not.

Or would he? After all, he has left before. But he came back. But still, he left. Could Dean be sure that he'd come back this time?

Worries like these have turned into an infinite loop in Dean's head. He's not sure what exactly managed to shatter his trust in his little brother's loyalty, but suddenly he doesn't understand how he could ever be so sure that Sam wouldn't leave him. After half an hour a dull pain starts to pulsate in the back of his head and the terror of another dysreflexia attack is the icing on Dean's cake of hell.

Holly enters the room like a rescuing angel some twenty minutes later. Her eyebrows immediately shoot up when she sees that Sam is not on his usual spot next to Dean's bed. She's at Dean's side in an instant, her warm hands on his cheeks as she leans over him. Her touch is salvation and damnation at the same, because oh, it's so wonderful to feel someone's skin on his, and yet, it's not what he wants; he wants Sam's hand there, goddamit, and Sam isn't here.

"Are you ok, honey?"

Dean blinks twice for "no", and for the umptieth time this month has to keep himself from crying. "Head aches", he mouths and has to repeat it twice before Holly gets it.

"Where is Sam?" she asks while she checks if the brace sits correctly. Dean wants to shrug his shoulders and can't and really, this day just gets worse and worse.

"Don't know" he answers. Holly now has both her hands at his jaw.

"Dean, you're way too tense here. You've been grinding your teeth, right? For quite some time?"

Dean thinks back and yes, he has since Sam didn't come back at lunch time. That's more than three hours now. He blinks once.

Holly looks at him for a second.

"Just wait a moment, it will all be ok, soon. Promise." Then she slips out of the room again, only to return a few moments later. Dean is surprised that she doesn't bring new medication with her, but instead levers the bed down until it's completely flat and then carefully takes off the neck brace, making sure that the vent is only disconnected for a minimal amount of time. When Dean's weak neck is bare, she slowly starts to massage the back of his head, the top of his neck and his jaw.

"Don't worry", Holly says and puts a little lotion on her hands. "Nothing ever escapes the attention of nurses, especially not a fine looking young man like your brother. We'll know where he is in about fifteen minutes."

Under the nurses skilled hands, the tension disappears from Dean's neck like a nightmare at the break of dawn and takes the headache with it. When he's relaxed enough, she puts the brace back on and slowly lifts the bed up to a little over 30°. Holly stays with him and they watch TV while she tells him about her grandchildren, until - just as she predicted - about fifteen minutes later a student nurse, a bland young thing that Dean has never seen before, comes in to tell them that someone from the third floor heard that a cafeteria girl saw Sam leave the hospital with Dr Landly.

It takes a second for Dean to understand that Dr Landly is in fact Milla, the doctor zombon. This little clue is enough for him to figure out what Sam actually wanted to tell him when he left; because Dean isn't stupid and he can make the connection from Milla to rehab and help and from there to "Errand to run… clothes…stuff". So, Sam left with Milla to get Dean suitable clothes for rehab. He'll be back soon and everything will be alright again.

But why isn't Dean more relieved? There still remains a ball of emotion resting at the base of his neck, lurking in the shadow. Maybe because nothing of his situation is even remotely "alright", and Sam coming back might make it slightly more bearable but certainly won't fix anything? Dean forces himself to relax his jaw again. Why did Sam leave him at all, why couldn't he just tell Milla... Then understanding hits Dean and suddenly he knows why it makes his teeth hurt that Sam can leave and Dean can't, suddenly it's crystal clear.

He's angry. Angry with Sam for leaving without telling him where he'd go, but most of all, Dean is angry with himself.

It doesn't help at all that Sam is back in time for Oprah, bouncing into the room with two bags in hand and a smile on his face. He startles when he sees the cloud on Dean's face and quickly puts down the bags to crouch over his brother.

"Where have you been?" Dean asks and it's every bit the bitter accusation that he didn't want it to be. _How pathetic, Dean. How needy._

"I got you some stuff for rehab", Sam says and places his hand - so warm and familiar, so longed for – on his brother's cheek. Dean shrinks back from it as if it was poison, as far as he can. Which isn't really far, but enough movement to make Sam take away his hand.

"What's wrong?" Sam asks. "Is it because I went out? Dean, it was barely more than three hours. And you had a nurse for company!"

Dean's surprised expression is enough of a tell for Sam to understand that maybe he that last bit didn't actually happen.

"You mean, she didn't..." and he swears under his breath. "Dean, really, I asked a nurse – one of the young ones – to hang out with you, and she said she'd have time to... She really didn't?"

Dean blinks twice and Sam continues swearing. "I'm so sorry, Dean. I didn't think you'd be alone. Really, I just wanted to get some stuff for you, so I went with Milla and we got you... She really didn't come?"

Dean can tell that Sam is absolutely outraged and he softens a little bit. Now that his gigantic little brother looms over him again, he can't even imagine how he could ever think that Sam might leave him behind like that. And when Sam starts spreading his swag - with focus on the new walkman - all over Dean's bed, his enthusiasm is infectious.

SUPERNATURAL

Sam could kick himself. That look on Dean's face when Sam came back from his little shopping trip? Worse than getting shot at.

He doesn't want to think about his brother being trapped in this room all afternoon, so he spends more time than necessary on showing off what he bought for Dean. There are stories to tell, like the one about the guy in the electronics department and his unbelieving look when Sam asked for a walkman.

"And then he's all like: 'Sure you don't want an I-pod, son?'", Sam actually does the voice, a deep bass like a bear roaring. "But I thought you'll maybe wanna listen to your tapes, so I got this one", and he taps lightly on the black little box on his lap.

"You got them?" Dean mouths. Sam is confused for a second and it shows on his face. "The tapes? From the car?"

Sam nods reluctantly, scared that he might have accidentally touched a wound he has been careful to avoid for the last month. The car. _Dean's_ car.

"They're in my bag in the corner. You wanna listen to them now?"

Dean blinks twice. Hard.

"Ok then" Sam says, desperate to change the topic. He puts the walkman on the little side table in the corner, out of Dean's range of view, and then rummages around in the shopping bag, hoping to fish out something that will distract Dean from the fate of his car. Something like socks.

"You know what Milla did with these here?" Of course, he embellishes the truth a little bit, makes Milla a little stealthier in her sock exchange. He even tries a terrible pun with stock exchange. He knows that he's clowning around, but right now Sam would do anything to make Dean smile. Anything. "Milla, she's alright, I think". Dean blinks once.

After the initial distance, Dean once again signals willingness to be touched and Sam tries his best to be casual when he puts his hand on his brother's face whenever he's not presenting men's wear. Finally, they come to the bottom of the last shopping bag and soon the blaring of the TV is drowning out a semi-comfortable silence.

Sam's not quite sure what exactly is going on with Dean. He knows that his brother's ticked off – seriously, who wouldn't be? - but there is also something new in Dean's eyes that he can't classify, can't put his finger on. It scares him.

Late after lunch time, they are just getting ready for bed when another nurse strolls into Dean's room with a big smile plastered on her face. Sam has never seen her before, but sorts her into the "annoyingly perky" batch the minute she walks through the door, even before he notices the disposable camera in her hand.

"Hey, you two!" She chirps. "They say that you have had no pictures taken so far. And we can't have that, right?"

Dean and Sam share a quick look, both clearly without an idea what that woman is talking about. She doesn't seem to care.

"Oh, come on" says the nurse and pushes Sam closer to Dean's bed. "Everyone takes pictures when they're in the hospital, so one day they can look back and see the progress they have made".

Sam isn't quite sure if he'll ever want to look back at this day, at Dean lying half-naked in a hospital bed with the brace around his neck and this expression on his face that is half bravery and half bone deep despair. Sam isn't really sure about most things these days and he just can't bring himself to talk to Dean about any of this, not now, not as long as Dean can't speak properly.

But Sam worries so much that it eats him alive and being around Dean is maybe the only thing that keeps him from breaking down completely. After all, it's Dean and not Sam who's lying in the hospital bed, so Sam has to be the brave one, right? Even if his thoughts make his head hurt, he'll never show. But...how will they ever pay for rehab? Taking it all from Milla? Another scam so close to the hospital? No way. And speaking of it, how will that vague future they'll have to face after rehab look? What if the doctors are right and Dean won't get better?

Sam has read the fucking brochure and, quite frankly, it has scared him shitless how much care and money it takes to keep someone in Dean's position alive.

The nurse - still perky, possibly even more annoying, and apparently too cheery to introduce herself - is finally satisfied with Sam standing behind his brother at the head of the bed, and then she raises the mattress, quickly and way more than the 30 degree Dean has slowly gotten used to. Of course, Dean gets dizzy immediately and tries desperately to get Sam's attention, but the only thing he can do is roll his eyes upwards to where Sam is leaning and resting his crossed arms on the back of the bed.

Sam is too focused on getting the damn picture taken to notice, too focused on faking a convincing smile that still comes slowly even after all his years of practice. Soon enough, the nurse clicks a few times and then, when Sam just wants to ask her for the camera or how they'll get the developed pictures, the woman just... leaves.

Sam wants to follow her, but when he rounds the bed he sees how Dean's eyes are squeezed together and beads of sweat roll down his brother's temple. He pushes the alarm button a millisecond later, then he lowers the bed down flat. He strokes Dean's temple until a battalion of nurses storms in, and again, he's kicked out of the room, but this time it's only for a short period of time. Dean's asleep when Sam comes back into the room.

Of course, no nurse has ever seen a woman that fits Ms Photography's description.

SUPERNATURAL

The next day Dean wakes up with the first rays of the sun. They are getting closer to the longest day of the year and now, dawn no longer falls together with the morning shift change. The air is filled with a new energy; Dean can feel it bubbling in his throat, his newfound anger simmering below the surface, in the gray zone where sensation flickers like an old light bulb. Rationally, he knows that Sam had no chance to detect the impostor, knows that his brother only wants the best for him, but still? Hasn't he picked up anything all these years? Wasn't it clear that had to be a zombon?

He can see parts of Sam's back, of tousled hair, his giant brother sleeping in the corner. How uncomfortable it must be over there, and Dean just can't bring himself to care. If Sam is uncomfortable, he'll have to turn around _all by himself_. There is so much venom in this thought that Dean creeps himself out with it. He really shouldn't feel this way, but he's so far gone that he can't even feel guilty for not feeling guilty at all. Not like he ever has before.

Again, Jeanette has the morning shift. Her smile is the same as every morning when she whispers her cheerful greeting. Only this time, the Sam heap in the corner actually wakes up at her silent entry, moves and sits up.

"Good morning to you, too, honey" Jeanette takes the time to greet him, then she takes something out of her pocket that Dean can't see and hands it to Sam. "This came for you two about ten minutes ago. They said it was urgent, but we didn't want to wake you too early on your big day."

Sam gets up and walks up to Dean's bed. It's an envelope, regular sized but apparently stuffed all the way. It seems rather heavy, even in Sam's hand.

"Open it!" Dean says. Sam obliges immediately. He rips it open without caring about the envelope itself, and then Dean can see his little brother pale. There is something in his hand now; it seems to be small and Sam is staring at it with a mixture of fury – and tenderness.

Internally, Dean curses that he can't make a sound to get Sam's attention. He wants to know what's in that envelope, goddammit, the _whatever-it-is_ definitely not being the only thing; Dean can see paper peeking out at the open end. It's got to be something important. _Why can't you just show me, Sammy? Why?_

Sam wakes abruptly from his contemplation of the mystery object, and a second later he's at Dean's side.

"It's your necklace, Dean! The necklace I gave you". On Sam's open palm, the little gold pendant is shimmering in the morning light. "That bastard..."

Jeanette takes that moment to clear her throat, reminding them both that she's still there and that, even if she's completely flabbergasted by Sam's intense reaction, she still has got a job to do .

Sam motions her to go on and sits down on the chair next to Dean's bed. He's obviously too worked up about their letter from Adam – because who else could it really be – so that he doesn't seem to pay attention to what the nurse is doing with Dean's body. Thank God for small favors.

Dean once again tries to blend out everything connected to his morning routine and instead focuses on Sam, who has extracted a bunch of photos from the envelope. They are wrapped with a sheet of paper that is covered with neatly handwritten letters. Sam holds the pictures up for Dean to see, one after one. Not surprisingly, they have been taken by the mysterious nurse from yesterday. Dean is now absolutely convinced that she was an improved version of a zombon, equipped with the ability to speak, but still under Adam's control. Every photo shows an enlarged detail of the original scene; there is Sam's forced smile, Dean's lifeless hands, the anguish in his eyes. It's all there.

Jeanette has stepped up to Dean, putting a hand on his cheek. "I can come back later, ok? Deal with this first." Dean thanks her and she leaves the room. He has no idea how far she got. He also doesn't care.

By now, Sam has skimmed the letter and is cursing under his breath. He shoots Dean a little glance, as if he had to check that Dean can actually take what it says and it annoys Dean more than anything that Sam thinks he's that weak. He mouths "Go on!" as bossy as he can.

"Ok, listen to this." As Sam starts reading, Dean can hear another voice in his head. A voice filled with malice and anger, accompanied by the whoosh sound of a ventilator and the manic laughter of a woman.

"WELL, DEAN. HOW DID YOU ENJOY THESE FIRST FEW WEEKS? WE HOPE YOU HAVE JUST AS MUCH FUN AS ADAM HAD IN THE HOSPITAL. YOU ARE LOOKING A LITTLE PALE, BUT WE ARE SURE THAT IT WILL ONLY GET WORSE WITH THE FUTURE. THIS IS ONLY THE BEGINNING. ENJOY YOUR NON-LIFE.

ADAM AND LORI ANN

"P.S. YOUR BROTHER IS STILL AROUND?"

Sam takes a ragged breath at that and continues reading with a tremble in his voice that Dean knows for sure is anger, not pain.

"WE TOLD YOU. IT IS ONLY A MATTER OF TIME BEFORE HE LEAVES YOU. AGAIN."

Sam looks up at Dean. "Never, you hear me? You know I'll never leave you behind like that!"

"I know, Sammy" Dean lies. "More?"

Sam looks back on the paper. "Oh, yeah.

'P.P.S. JUST TO PROVE THAT YOUR LIFE WILL SUCK NO MATTER WHAT, HERE IS A LITTLE PRESENT FROM US TO YOU.'"

Confusion has replaced the fury on Sam's face. "They can't mean the necklace, right?"

"Back of the paper" Dean tries to tell him. And when Sam turns the paper, there are rows of numbers written on the back.

**One final question... apparently this isn't actually posting to the boards on . I know those of you who have me alerted are getting the story, but I've been told that the actual listing doesn't have it. Have any of you ever had this problem or have thoughts on a solution? I guess I could email the admins, but I wanted to try and fix it myself before I go bugging them. Thanks!**


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Hey guys! Thanks, as always, for reading. I finally got an answer about the story not showing up on the site - Thanks a bunch, Adder574 for your help with this! Anyway, for everyone out there wondering, each time you check the main list of stories you will need to go to the sort specifications line (begins with page 1 of ### and is followed by a bunch of blue boxes). Find the one that says 'rated k -- t' and click on it so that you select 'rated all.' Because I have this story rated M it won't show up unless you specifically want to see those. And fyi - I think we're all missing out on some good stories because of the way this is done! Unfortunately, it won't save the settings so you will have to do this every time you open the screen, but at least we have the answer! _

_And now on with the story - it's a little shorter than last week, but serves as the seperation point between the hospital and rehab...._

Before Adam's letter arrived Sam had somehow managed to convince himself that Dean was no longer in danger, that the threat was gone because Adam had succeeded in what he'd set out to do. The letter opens his eyes, heightens his awareness. Suddenly, Sam finds himself on the defensive, once again seeking out information and forcing himself to hear details that he hadn't taken the time to hear before.

It's not until he starts doing this that he realizes just how much of his attention has been focused solely on Dean and his recovery; not nearly enough on the surrounding details.

It's surprisingly easy to obtain the information he needs; embarrassingly easy, actually. Turns out Adam and Lori Ann had managed to escape police custody nearly two weeks ago, slipped free during a transfer from one facility to another. Because of Adam's circumstances, and the fact that the state didn't want to pay for 24 hour nursing care, they had allowed Lori Ann complete access to Adam during their incarceration. And apparently that allowed them plenty of time to plot their escape.

The police have no leads, have no idea how it is that an entire transport van can just disappear, driver, guards and all. But Sam's only question is how it is that he's gone this long without knowing about the escape. How could he have been so distant that he didn't know this? And why didn't anyone from the police station notify him?

As to how they'd made their escape, Sam has his suspicions; figures that after the events of the past few days the answer is as obvious as the nose on his face. Adam is back to his old tricks, creating more zombons to suit his needs. The police escort, the nurse from yesterday, who knows who else. And somehow he's managed to refine his technique so that the new zombons are walking, talking, functioning members of society. No more of this separation and distance present in Milla and the nurses during Dean's captivity.

The whole thing scares the ever-loving shit out of Sam, has him hovering over top of Dean non-stop, refusing to leave even during the normally obligatory time frame when Jeanette returns to finish the morning routine. And he can see in Dean's eyes that this time he's glad Sam doesn't leave. The humiliation of the process is far outweighed by the possibility that another zombon could somehow find its way to Dean. Neither of them is willing to risk the helplessness of the situation.

--

Milla shows up around 11:00 on the day Dean leaves the hospital. She seems awkward, out of place, as though she really isn't sure what her role is anymore. Sam can see where that must be a problem, to have once been an esteemed surgeon within the very same hospital that Dean is being cared for at, the same hospital that she can no longer practice medicine at.

In a moment of weakness, desperation, she'd shared with Sam the fact that she's been put on an indefinite leave until she can prove that she's capable of surgery. But her hands shake now, and time in surgery affects her breathing and her composure, and she's not sure when or even _if_ she'll ever be capable of the talents she once had.

For the time being she is merely a civilian, out of place in the room. She doesn't really belong with the doctors and the nurses filtering into and out of the room as they prepare Dean for his transfer that afternoon. And she doesn't belong with Sam and Dean, either.

Yet she's here nonetheless; ready to offer her support in any way that she can, any way that Sam will allow. He'll need a ride, and she's got a car. He'll need information, and she knows how to ask the right questions. For now she stands in the corner, trying to stay out of the way. But later Sam will let her help. For Dean.

At 11:30 the transport team arrives, joins in the flurry of activity to finalize Dean's preparations. He is bundled in blankets and transferred from the hospital bed to a gurney, tightly secured by straps across his ankles, thighs, chest and shoulders. They switch him from the stationary ventilator in the room to a portable vent, snapping the hose in place through the hole in the c-collar he wears to keep his head steady and placing the portable machine on the gurney between his legs.

Sam is so anxious he barely says two words to Dean throughout this whole ordeal, but he makes sure he stays within his brother's line of sight at all times, and when everything is ready he finally speaks.

"You good?" Sam asks, dropping a hand to Dean's cheek for comfort.

Dean blinks once, indicating yes, but the moisture in his eyes is suspicious and Sam wonders if there is more to the blink than meets the eye.

"K, well they won't let me ride in the van with you. But Milla is giving me a ride to the rehab center. We'll be right behind you, okay? I've got your back."

Dean blinks once again, more moisture welling up and he blinks several more times to hold back the tears. 'You checked?' Dean mouths, suddenly desperate.

Immediately Sam knows what Dean is thinking. He's on top of his game this time, ready with an answer and certain of its truth. "I've been watching. You've got a good team," he says cryptically, knowing Dean will understand the meaning. "Twenty minutes, okay bro? Twenty minutes and we're back together. I'm right behind you."

Pursing his lips Dean nods minutely and closes his eyes, the meaning clear. He'll hold out until they're back together again.

Sam forces out a smile and pats Dean on the cheek.

He's come to realize that his mood, his level of confidence, is directly in correlation with his brother's. When Sam is upset, so is Dean. So he forces himself to let some reassurance rub off. His gaze lingers on Dean for several seconds, hand cupping his brother's chin and cheek with one final pat before he pulls away and nods to the transport crew.

"_Right_ behind you," he says one final time as Dean is pushed from the room, doesn't even wait until the gurney clears the doorway before he's looking at Milla with desperation and anxiety in his eyes.

"Can we go?"

1

---

Sliding into the passenger's seat of Milla's practical Ford Fusion, Sam breathes a heavy sigh. He wants nothing less than to be riding over to the rehab hospital with her. He still doesn't trust her, doesn't want any more to do with her than he absolutely has to. But the woman has insisted, and moreover, she's convinced him that having her there as a liaison between the rehab staff and Dean would make everything go altogether more smoothly.

Because it's for Dean, he's agreed.

He glances at the clock, shocked to see that it's already almost half past noon. By his math that means it's taken close to three hours just to get his brother ready for transport, and that's not counting the time Jeanette was with him before that. Over the past few weeks he's become increasingly time conscious, ever aware of the lengths it takes each day to care for his brother. Just one more aspect of Dean's new life that Sam has come to realize is completely overwhelming.

He sighs heavily and tries to push the thought from his mind, save a worry for another day. Focusing instead on the activity in the ambulance bay, Sam tries to at least put himself in the moment.

The guy driving the transport bus climbs in and shuts the door behind him, starts the ignition with a hearty roar and pulls away from the curb. Milla does the same, following the ambulance into traffic, as Sam takes a deep breath and runs a shaky hand through his hair and down over his neck.

_This is it. This is really happening. _

Somehow none of the past few weeks has seemed real until just now, watching Dean being loaded into the back of the ambulance, so still and so helpless. His brother's eyes had been haunted, as though he too was just realizing how real things were.

Milla takes a chance, reaches over and puts a comforting hand on Sam's leg and squeezes. He jumps a little, contemplates shaking her off, but suddenly finds that he needs the comfort more than he's realized. In the few days since Dean convinced him to let her help Sam has only just barely been able to tolerate having Milla in the room with them, had to force himself to stomach the shopping trip they'd gone on, and he's been terrified of this day when Dean is transferred out of the hospital and Sam finds himself in need of another place to sleep. Milla's house, to be exact. Yet in an unexpected turn of events Sam discovers that it's not so hard to allow himself to seek solace with this woman.

He offers a hesitant smile, just enough to let her know that he's okay with the gesture, and she in turn leaves her hand on his leg for a few seconds longer before giving another squeeze of release and returning her hand to the steering wheel.

"I know it's hard to believe it now, but things will get better in time," she says, pressing her luck on how far to go.

Sam shrugs, but says nothing, keeping his eyes on the ambulance in front of them while wondering what Dean is thinking right now. Luckily, Milla takes the hint and goes quiet for the duration of the drive, only speaking up again when they actually pull in at New Beginnings and find a place to park.

"We're here," she says quietly. Sam doesn't move, doesn't even twitch. The ambulance is a good thirty feet away, pulled up right in front of the entrance to the building, and Sam watches in a dazed stupor as the transport team animates. All doors open on the bus as people climb from the front and jump into the back to pull Dean's gurney out. Two men and a woman emerge from the entrance to the rehab center and make a beeline to the crowd, immediately inserting themselves into the action.

For a minute Sam sees nothing, and then the gurney appears and there's Dean, all bundled up in blankets and strapped down. The portable ventilator is still lying between his legs, hoses snaking back and up to his neck through the hole in the Philadelphia collar. The collection bag just hangs obtrusively off the side of the gurney, half full of pale yellow liquid. Nothing has changed since Dean was loaded in back at the hospital, yet Sam can't help the sense of shock that overcomes him at the sight.

The wheels drop down as the gurney emerges from the back of the bus, and then someone raises the head up a little so that Dean can see more of what's going on around him. Sam watches someone lean over his brother for a minute then straighten up and look around the parking lot and back toward the road, shrugging when he turns back to Dean and pats him on the shoulder. Immediately, Sam is aware of what the man is looking for. _Who_ he is looking for. And it's clear that Milla knows, too.

"Are you going in?" she asks gently. For the second time that day she lays a hand on Sam's leg, but this time he barely even notices it.

Tears rim his eyes and he blinks them back furiously, digs the heels of his hands into his sockets to try and stop the flow of emotion. "God, I hate this," Sam says. He sniffles a couple of times, checks his eyes once more, and grabs for the door handle. "Okay, let's go."

In an instant Sam is all business again, no sign of the insecurity and emotion that plagued him just seconds before, and he walks a fast path to the front of the hospital where they're just now pushing Dean through. Out of the corner of his eye Sam catches a glimpse of Milla struggling to keep up with his long legged stride, but he doesn't slow down. His concern is only for Dean.

He catches up with the group just as they're leaving the spacious entry hall and turning left down a corridor. Sam sprints to cover the last few yards of distance and comes to the side of the gurney, planting his hand down on Dean's shoulder as he watches his brother visibly relax.

"D'jyou think I was gonna miss this?" Sam asks, forcing cheerfulness into his voice in an effort to make things seem better than they actually are. He knows if Dean could speak that he'd be making some sort of sarcastic comment about Sam stopping for tampons on the way or some other stupid suggestion to imply that his little brother is a girl. As much as they annoy him, Sam finds he misses those remarks when they're no longer being spouted at every turn.

For a second, Sam is certain that Dean is glaring at him, eyebrows arched down toward his nose and mouth pursed tightly. Sam backs off just a few inches as he wonders if him not being there immediately has caused his brother to be angry with him again. But just as quickly as the reaction came on it disappears, replaced once more by the insecurity that Sam has been dealing with all week.

Dean bites his lower lip and shakes his head marginally, blinking twice. He says nothing else; just locks his eyes on his brother and allows Sam to be his strength as the gurney is pushed down the hall. Sam squeezes Dean's shoulder, even though he can't feel it, and looks away from Dean's stalwart gaze, scanning the group for recognition.

He recognizes the four members of the transport crew, an EMT, a nurse, a physical therapist, and an occupational therapist that all work at the center. The other woman who met up with the group when they arrived is Tanya Jackson, the director of New Beginnings. He's met her before, just the other day when Milla brought him for a tour of the facility, and he gives her a slight nod of the head in recognition as he continues his scan of the group. The other two men Sam doesn't know, but when his eyes fall to them Tanya takes notice and provides introductions.

"Sam, this is Dr. Liteman and Jamie Brand. Dr. Liteman will be overseeing Dean's medical care while he's here, and Jamie is the case manager assigned to your brother." Sam reaches back to shake hands with the two men, but never leaves Dean's line of sight.

"It's nice to meet you both," Sam says, though he doesn't really mean it. He'd rather not be meeting any of these people, would rather that Dean not be in the situation he's in.

They continue down the hallway, making a right turn halfway down and then another left before they come to a row of doors. Most of the doors are open, and some of the rooms hold patients in various stages of rehabilitation. But Sam doesn't pay much attention to them at the moment, focusing only on finding out which door they take Dean through. Tanya stops at the fourth door on the right and pushes the half closed door all the way open, pressing her back against it to provide room for the gurney and everyone else to enter.

The room is obviously already lived in, although the other occupant is nowhere to be found. There are two beds on the right wall, both highly technical and obviously expensive, with two nightstands side by side that create a large gap between the beds. The closer bed is made up in dark blue and white striped sheets with a Philadelphia Eagles blanket folded neatly at the foot. On the wall above the bed is a corkboard over-filled with pictures and cards, a big sign over that reading GET WELL SOON DADDY in large, childlike scrawl. More pictures and cards are taped to the wall that makes up one side of the bathroom.

Sam's heart skips a beat, his chest clenching, as he looks to the other bed, corkboard bare and empty, and wonders if Dean will get any cards. Probably not, seeing as how Dean won't even let him contact any of their small selection of friends to tell them about what's happened.

Tanya's voice breaks into his thoughts, and Sam immediately abandons them to focus on her, needing to soak in as much information as he can. "Dean, we're going to get you settled in bed and give you some time to rest. Someone will be by soon with lunch for you, and after that we'll assemble you and the rest of your family and team to discuss what will happen over the next few months. How does that sound?"

Dean mouths 'fine' to the administrator, then bites his bottom lip again as he prepares to be transferred into bed. Sam's noticed he's been doing that a lot lately, and it really unnerves him how his once brash and confident older brother has taken on such an insecure habit. It's like the whole world has just been turned upside down on its axis, everything is backwards now and inside out, spinning out of control. Sam just wants to stomp and scream, throw a tantrum in the middle of the room.

_Stop the world, I want to get off! _

As the team undoes the straps holding Dean onto the gurney and removes the blankets Sam is confronted with more out of the ordinary, more stuff that makes Dean no longer Dean. The rehab hospital insists that its patients be dressed every day, no longer this laying around naked under a sheet that the hospital has been pushing. Problem is, Dean is a t-shirt and jeans kind of guy. He's rugged and brazen and kind of cowboyish. But jeans are impractical for rehab. They're heavy and bulky and don't really yield all that much, not to mention the problem with rubs and pressure sores. Underneath the blankets Dean is now dressed from head to toe in a pair of sweatpants and a button-up shirt, tennis shoes that have replaced Dean's standard steel-toed boots. And seeing his brother all prepped out like some jock on the high-school football team just doesn't fit with the brother he knows, the brother who would be more likely to salt and burn the school gym than he would participate in organized sports.

It's just another thing he'll have to get used to, Sam realizes, another change in their topsy-turvy world.

SUPERNATURAL

Things are awkward during the first day at rehab. With Milla huddling in the far corner of the room trying to stay out of the way, and Sam pacing anxiously back and forth and clearly trying to seek out problems and malfunctions in the equipment that have the potential to be life-threatening. He's pressed the call button twice already, sheepishly apologizing both times when a nurse shows up needlessly. He's been all over the ventilator, checking the outlet it's plugged into and following the wires and the tubing in search of any kinks or weaknesses. The new bed, a combination of sand and air moving on a rotation that allows pressure on Dean's skin to be relieved without having to turn him as often, is clearly mystifying to Sam with all the bells and whistles that he describes eagerly to Dean. His geekboy brain works overtime to understand all the functions, but it's all Dean can do to find the energy to offer up a smirk and an eyeroll, the gesture merely an act with no emotion behind it.

Within minutes of the transport team clearing out a young nurse peeks her head into the room. She's maybe thirty at the oldest, curly, flaming red hair pulled high on top of her head with a few wispy tendrils framing her freckled face and otherwise porcelain white skin. Green eyes stand out sharply, contrasting the maroon color to her lipstick. They don't wear scrubs here, or polyester uniforms. Instead, she's wearing a pair of fitted khaki pants that emphasize her slender waist and a deep forest green polo shirt with the logo of the New Beginnings Rehabilitation Hospital embroidered over the pocket on the left; a pocket which lies flatteringly overtop of her firm, perky breasts.

She fits Dean's type to a tee, represents every girl he's ever chased down in bars over the years, every girl he's ever gone home with after finishing a hunt. There is a flicker of desire that flows through him as she introduces herself as Chelsea, a moment in which he forgets his situation and prepares a surefire pickup line.

And then she continues, telling him she'll be his nurse during the weekdays, and pulls a can of Ensure seemingly from thin air and gets to work on the g-tube setup. It's an instant, and he's right back in the present, understanding he will never be anything more to her than a patient, convincing himself that his days of being desired by women that look like her are long since over.

It's a whirlwind of a turnaround, has him sinking into a fog of despair before he can even blink. His world, the world as he once knew it, has completely changed and Dean is just beginning to realize that. Never before has he not left a hospital under his own steam, signing out AMA long before the doctors feel he has any rights to even be standing. Yet now, not only has he been genuinely and formally discharged, but it's only to a different hospital. And he will need help to leave this one, too. Christ, he'll be lucky if he's _sitting_ when they send him home next time.

"That should help you feel better," Chelsea says, smiling warmly as she leans over and glides the back of her fingers across Dean's forehead. "Would you like some ice chips, too?"

Dean blinks once and Sam jumps in, ever helpful. "It's a system we worked out in the hospital," he says, proudly. "One blink means yes. Two is no."

Chelsea smiles politely. "I think I may have heard that one a time or two," she says, winking at Dean. Sam blushes and backs off, obviously realizing that this system of theirs may not have been as unique as he'd once thought.

"Open wide," Chelsea says. She spoons a few ice chips out of a disposable plastic cup she's brought with her and slides them onto Dean's tongue as he waits hungrily for them. Lately his mouth is always dry, and the few times a day that he's offered the savored ice chips never seems to be enough to satiate him.

Closing his eyes completely, Dean savors the ice on his tongue, waits as long as he can to swallow the melt off from it. He realizes that this is one of the few things he looks forward to during the day, thinks to himself how pathetic that is even as he opens his mouth for more. If this is all he has to look forward to anymore, what the hell kind of life _is_ this?

Opening his eyes once again, he can see Chelsea waiting patiently with the ice, Sam hovering anxiously on the other side of the bed waiting for some way to be useful, and Milla still hiding in the corner pretending to fit in. Not one of them seems to be happy to be here, and yet, he just can't find it in himself to care. Instead, Dean opens his mouth for another ice chip and pushes all thoughts of the rest of the world out of his mind.

Which works for all of thirty minutes. Tops.

At some point Chelsea leaves. He doesn't remember her saying goodbye, but he know when she returns, this time part of a group of New Beginning's staff all dressed in the same casual uniform of khaki pants and polo shirts and obnoxious smiles. Dean hasn't even met any of them yet, and already he hates every last one.

Dr. Liteman leads the team, reintroducing himself before he introduces the other members and explains their purpose in Dean's recovery. _Recovery, _yeah right. What a laugh.

Dean barely pays attention. He doesn't make an attempt to remember names, and barely remembers occupations. And besides, he's got Sam to take care of that kind of thing. His little brother's probably got a pencil and a notepad, poised and ready to take notes verbatim over the course of this little meet and greet session.

And Dean figures, let him.

He's got a million therapists; physical and occupational and speech and respiratory, and figures that not one of them is going to do him much good if the doctors have gotten his prognosis right. Seriously, how much good can physical therapy do on a body that's completely locked down on itself. Laughs humorlessly to himself as he thinks, _maybe I can learn to wiggle my ears…_

The team of psychologists is laughable at best. He's never seen much use for them in the past, can't really see any purpose for them now. Isn't their job to sit and listen to their patients, and evaluate their needs? Well Dean can't talk, for one, and for another, he's got nothing to say. So unless they can end this nightmare he's stuck in they're not going to be of any use.

He can only see one purpose for the nurses; sponge baths and eye candy. And he's already been down that route mentally with Chelsea, has already figured out that his fantasies will remain just that. No chance anymore of actually taking one of them to bed. So, again, what's the point?

And that pretty much only leaves the social worker, aka 'discharge planner.' His ears perk up, finally, at that one and suddenly he's got something to look forward to. _Discharge_. _Yeah._ Now that guy Dean figures he'll make friends with. Makes a point to remember his name. Jamie. Jamie Brand.

They don't really say much, after all the flash and flare of the introductions. Each one says some iteration of the same thing; 'it's a pleasure to meet you Dean, we've got a long road ahead of us, can't wait to get started.' But the only thing he notices is that not a one of them says 'can't wait to heal you, Dean. Can't wait to get you up and on your feet, walking again. Looking forward to seeing you breathe on your own again.'

When they leave he hates them even more. Hates Milla for her part in this. Hates himself for not being able to overcome the odds. Ah, hell, adds in hating Sam for good measure, just because he's trying so damn hard to keep things positive and upbeat, and it's just fucking annoying!

He's kind of figuring Adam be damned, at this point; zombons be damned. Right now he just wants to be left alone, left to wallow in the ever deepening black pit of despair that's slowly been encroaching over the past several hours. So isn't it just perfect that at the time when he would just love to be left alone, he ends up coming face to face with the thus-far absent roommate.

He's in a wheelchair, which Dean had pretty much expected, and guides it by pushing his fists against a series of togs on the rims of the wheels. He doesn't seem to have any hand control, and limited arm control, muscles straining to propel the chair forward. The guy wears a pair of khaki pants and a white tank top, both falling loosely over his atrophying body, but Dean can just make out the history of muscle that must have once filled out a well-built physique.

Instantly Dean begins to think of his own body, the way it looked before and the way it looks now. It's barely been a month and he already looks like a weakened kitten; it scares him to think he'll develop the same stringy muscles and bony build that he can see on the roommate.

A deep blue tattoo of a firehouse crest covers the left bicep, and a barbed wire chain tattoo wraps around the other. Both sag now, as does the snake that entwines the lower right forearm. For once, Dean is glad that he's never seen fit to waste money on tattoos.

"Hey-heeey, what've we got here?" the guy sneers upon entry. He looks back at the aide trailing him and grins wickedly, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. "Fresh meat."

Dean cringes and purses his lips, and Sam jumps in between him and the new arrival, pulling himself to his full height and working the menacing stature to its full advantage.

The roommate laughs, waves a fisted hand at Sam as he maneuvers himself further into the room. "Relax, Kujo, I'm not gonna do anything to him. Just gotta toughen the guy up a bit. You'll see. I'm Kyle by the way. Kyle Tennyson."

He holds out his fist and Sam takes it awkwardly, pumping several times. "I'm Sam," he finally relents, stepping back. "That's Milla, and this is my brother Dean."

Kyle nods. He leans himself forward in the chair, propping up with elbows on the knees, and jerks a head in the direction of the aide that's followed him in. "That's Stu…Stuey. He's just here to make sure I behave myself." Smirking, Kyle sets his sights on Dean.

"What're you in for, dude?"

Dean's eyes widen, a mixture of shock and uncertainty, maybe some incredulity, and he looks to Sam for help.

"He can't talk," Sam interjects. "The…the vent."

"Ahhh," Kyle says knowingly, reaching a fisted hand to Dean's bed and patting his leg. "No worries. You'll be off of that thing in no time."

"It's permanent," Milla says in her soft voice as she steps from the shadows of the corner, suddenly feeling a need to protect the boys. "Dean is C-2 complete." Dean squeezes his eyes shut and tries to void out the sound of his diagnosis. He hates hearing it, the reminder of all he's lost and what little he's got left. A month ago he barely knew what a vertebrae was, and now he's got the whole damn spinal structure down.

"Damn. Tough break." Kyle never breaks his stare at Dean despite the conversation aimed at him from the others. "So, you're like all trapped in there, huh? You got anything? A twitch in a finger? Sensation in your toes?"

Dean blinks twice, uses the signal for no as a means to blink back the ever present emotions that seem to insist on coming out at the most inopportune of times nowadays. Before his injury he can't remember one time in nearly twenty years that he's shed tears the way he's been doing it over the last few weeks. He's weak, now.

"Twice for no, right?" Kyle guesses. "And one is yes?" And damn does he hate it.

A single blink. Grudgingly. This is his roommate, and Dean doesn't want to start out on the wrong foot with him, realizes he may need him as an ally if things should go south one day, but _god_ he just wants to be left alone right now. He wants everyone to leave, needs time alone with his thoughts, time to figure some stuff out.

"Guess you've got the right idea, man. If you're gonna lose it, lose it all, right? Let the nurses wait on you hand and foot?" Kyle is smirking again, jerks his head back to the aide behind him once more. "This guy…he's not so much to look at. But I gotta tell you, some of the nurses here are H-O-T." He lets out a low whistle and raises his eyebrows. "If my old lady weren't such a saint for putting up with me, I'd tap every last one of those fine asses. I swear it's like a hiring requirement or something."

This time, even Dean can't help but be amused at Kyle's comment. The man is a fireball of energy, and it's hard not to react to him.

Dean pulls one side of his mouth up, about the best he can do for a smile, and draws on an image of Chelsea. If all the nurses look like her he figures things here won't be so bad. Just as soon as he can get past the hope that any of them might actually give him a second glance, that is.

"Kyle, we gotta get you in bed, man," Stu interrupts. "It's been a long day."

Kyle rolls his eyes in a private moment between himself and Dean, but pushes himself back to sitting upright and takes control of the joystick. "Yes, _mo-oom_."

"It's like boot camp in here," he directs at Dean. "They all just love giving orders."

Dean tries to smile again, thinking of his childhood and his father, the orders he'd endured growing up. And the fact that he would do anything to be back in those days, chasing after spirits and sparring with Sam. The smile falls short.

But Kyle doesn't appear to notice as he pulls a smooth wooden board out from under the pillow on his bed, removes the armrest of the wheelchair with awkward hands and slides the board under his limp legs, creating a bridge between himself and the edge of the bed.

"This is how the pros do it," he boasts.

Spastic muscles strain as Dean watches Kyle pull himself inch by agonizing inch over to the bed, refusing help from the aide with a shrug of the shoulders and a heavy glare.

The whole thing is painful and disheartening to watch. But the difference is that, where once upon a time Dean would have felt sorry for the guy, now he's jealous. Jealous of what he _does_ have that Dean _doesn't. _If only the damage to his spinal cord had been just a vertebra or two lower things would be different. At this point Dean would do just about anything to have the mobility in his hands and arms that Kyle has, anything to be using his own power to drag himself into bed. He'd do anything to be talking and snarky and breathing on his own.

One glance over at Sam, at the vacant expression in his little brother's eyes, and Dean guesses that he's dreaming of the same things. He's tired of it; tired of seeing the lost hope in his brother's eyes and wishing he could make things all better like he used to do.

Clicking his tongue, Dean manages to get Sam's attention. He puts on a brave face, his big brother face, and hopes his acting is up to par. 'You should go,' he mouths. 'I can see you're tired.'

Sam's immediate reaction is to shake his head, eyes widening in disbelief. "Dean, no. I'm not leaving you here tonight."

"Family isn't allowed to stay the night," Milla reminds Sam from behind. Dean sees her petite hand fall to Sam's shoulder shakily, but can't see her behind his behemoth of a brother. "Besides, we need to get you settled in the house."

"Your brother's in good hands with me," Kyle adds, now sitting propped up in bed with the head raised to a 45 degree angle. "I'll take good care of him."

The way he says it, like a frat brother offering to take care of the freshmen rushes, has Dean just about recant his request for Sam to leave. But he's hoping that, with the fact he can't talk, Kyle won't waste too much time on him. He musters up the courage to smile reassuringly at Sam. 'See? I have my own bodyguard.'

Sam still seems nervous, loathe to leave him alone, but it's clear his defenses are crumbling, and Dean forces himself to play the part of the happy cripple for just a few seconds more until his brother is gone.

"I can be back here in 15 minutes if you need anything, Dean," Sam says seriously. "You call me. Promise?"

Dean blinks once, although internally he's wondering just how he's supposed to do that when he can't talk and can't move. But what the hell, if it will get him some alone time he'll promise just about anything.

"You're sure you're okay alone?"

Dean has always had a very expressive face, and he pulls on that talent right now, widening his eyes and tensing his lips so that Sam can see just how annoyed he's getting with the unending questions. 'I'm fine, Sam. Now go.'

"Alright, alright. I'm gone. I'll be back bright and early tomorrow morning, though," Sam finally relents. He strokes a hand across Dean's forehead and back over his hair before turning on a heel and heading for the door, saying goodbye to Kyle before leaving. Milla follows suit, although she's not yet comfortable touching Dean, and then he's finally alone.

Kyle seems to understand Dean's need for silence, says nothing more than "Good night, sleep tight," before turning on the television and plopping a set of headphones over his ears to drown out the sound.

And then Dean gets his wish, solitude and quiet. And time to think, time to dwell. Time to sink further into despair.

SUPERNATURAL

Before they have even turned out of the parking lot, Sam has fetched Adam's letter out of his backpack.

"Do you know where the Ninth Street Bank is?" he asks.

"Sure. About ten minutes from here." Milla seems to have understood by now that no matter how hard she tries, Sam isn't up for idle conversation, and that short confident answers soothe his nerves.

"We'll make a slight detour and stop there first." Sam says, with a perfect copy of his father's commanding voice, and then, as an afterthought he adds a rough "That okay?", because hey, he's sitting in _her_ car on the way to _her_ house to stay there for god knows how long, so he should at least appear to be aiming for polite. Even if he still has to wrestle down his anger every time he looks at her.

"Sure" she says, slightly more forceful this time, reminding Sam of her words a few days back. _Whatever it may take... _

The bank building in the center of town is completely generic, nothing out of the ordinary. They stay in the car for some time, while Sam scans the surroundings for possible Adam-related threats. At least on the sidewalks, there is no obvious zombon activity. He fiddles with the paper in his hand, weighing the pros and cons of just walking straight in, when Milla clears her throat.

"Can I ask what we are doing here?" she asks in a carefully neutral voice. Without a word Sam hands her Adam's letter.

He watches her face as she reads, scans for any signs of obvious acting, of phoniness. But there is nothing but genuine fury in her eyes when she gives the letter back to him. Her hands are shaking so hard that he has to focus to pluck the paper out of her fingers.

"That bastard" she rasps, and Sam can tell that she is close to tears.

"Those bastards" he corrects. "Believe me, she's just as bad as he is."

Milla doesn't respond. Instead, she is pressing herself into the driver's seat, eyes squeezed tightly shut, her hands in tight shaking fists in her lap. She's silently crying now, Sam can tell, and for a second the urge to comfort her like any other victim of an evil force, like he would have done it a month ago, is almost overwhelming. It would be so easy to offer comfort, maybe even a form of forgiveness; a little pat on the shoulder would probably do the trick right now.

But he cannot bring himself to do it. She hurt Dean. Her hands were the tool to destruct his brother. And it's not Sam's part to forgive her. No, that's strictly between her and Dean, just as it is Sam's right to hate her for the rest of his life. If he wants.

Taking action seems to be the way to escape his confusion.

"Be right back!" and he's out of the car in a second.

He sprints across the street and into the lobby of the building as if he was chased. When he comes to a stop, standing right in the middle of the foyer, he still can't spot anything suspicious. There aren't many people around at this time of day, so there is only a group of men in suits in the corner that keeps the place from being deserted.

Sam turns in every direction, careful not to miss anything. Soon, he starts to question himself. Maybe he misinterpreted the numbers, maybe it meant something completely different and he just sprang to conclusions, maybe Adam wanted ---

Someone taps him on the shoulder. Sam swirls around, fists instantly up to defend himself. But before he can throw the first punch, he looks into the very confused face of a young man in a suit. The eyes are alert, there is no sign of zombon possession. The man has obviously quickly recovered from Sam's strangely defensive reaction and holds his hands up in a calming gesture, showing both palms in the ancient sign of "I won't hurt you". Sam lowers his fists slowly.

"I'm so sorry that I startled you, Mr Keyser" The guy even has the audacity to smile. "But you didn't react when I called your name."

Damn it, Sam scolds himself, because – really – that was sloppy.

"Yeah, sorry for the whole, you know," he punches two perfect right hooks into the air, "Muhammad Ali thing."

Suit Guy smiles politely and gestures for Sam to follow him to the wall, out of the spotlight.

"So you finally came to pick it up? We expected you yesterday." _What the fuck?_

"Oh yeah, right... I was working, got a little held up. You know how it is."

"Of course."

And then they have crossed the room and Suit Guy pulls something out of his pocket and hands it to Sam. It's an envelope, not as heavy and not as bulky as the other one, but the same format. Sam accepts it with a terrible feeling of dread. He won't be able to open it without Dean, that's for sure.

"How did you know that I was ... me?" he asks the guy. The answer comes with a puzzled look.

"But you were here when your sister gave it to me. For safekeeping. Don't you remember?"

"My sister? .... hmm... Which one? Short, blond, sort of a crazy look in her eyes?"

Suit guy is visibly confused by Sam's questions, but reacts to the description.

"Yes, sir, exactly! She has very captivating eyes, hasn't she? You really can't remember?"

"Of course, I can remember now! At least now, I can. So sorry. Sometimes, with all the working, I forget... things. Thank you. Goodbye." And Sam flees the building before Suit Guy informs the loony bin, the one burning thought on his mind being _Hypnosis... Oh, Lori Ann, you bitch!_

---

They are silent in the car, again. Sam leans his head against the cold glass of the car window, watching the shoulder go by, playing with the new, still unopened envelope between his fingers. There is something hard inside, but strangely enough he doesn't feel any curiosity or any urge to open it. Sam is too torn with the bone deep guilt he feels for not turning the car around to tell him about this new development, for leaving Dean behind, knowing his brother will have to spend a night alone for the first time in a month.

Still, there is a budding anticipation, but that has nothing to do with Adam's schemes. Hiding behind his bangs, he casts a surreptitious glance to Milla's tense figure in the drivers seat. Nothing could ever betray that she was crying not even half an hour ago.

She looks determined, head held high and eyes on the street, the epitome of efficiency. Only her hands give away that something happened to her that she couldn't deal with, and even their constant trembling is better right now than he has ever seen. It is obvious that she's convinced that Dean is in good hands at New Beginnings, and while the thought makes Sam feel a little bit better, it doesn't take away any of his pent-up tension.

Sam knows that he will spend the next odd months living in this woman's house, no matter how much he wishes things were different. As she said, it's the most sensible thing to do, but he hasn't even been to the place before, has no concept of its size at all, of what – or better who - will expect him at their arrival. It dawns on him that they have never talked about anything more than the bare necessities.

"So..." he starts and tries hard not to sound completely awkward. He fails. "Anyone I should prepare myself to meet? Husband, boyfriend, kids, pets?"

She shakes her head. "No. No one. No husband, no kids, allergic to every animal that could survive a weekend shift on its own, you know, like guinea pigs or a hamster. I've always wanted a dog, though." She smiles sadly. "Just never had the time, I guess."

"Oh. So... just the two of us then?"

"Just the two of us." A small pause. "We're almost there by the way."

For the first time since they pulled out of the New Beginnings parking lot, Sam starts to really look at his surroundings. They are driving down a wide street in what is clearly the better part of town. Well-kept houses stand detached like ships, surrounded by green lawns and tall trees. It's the kind of neighborhood where kids can ride their bikes and stay out all day in summer, the kind of neighborhood where parents don't allow their kids to be friends with the new boys in class if they happen to be people like the Winchester brothers. It hurt every time again.

Suddenly, Sam is reminded of the first time he ever walked into a house like this and his buddy's parents treated him like a normal guy and not like the weird boy from the motel that might carry the Ebola virus. That was in his first term in Stanford, and he still remembers how happy he was that day, despite the gap that separated him from his father and brother or maybe even because of it. Happy to be away from the darkness and the road and his dysfunctional family.

Sam wants to have them back so badly.

The car finally stops in front of a nice looking house that is not as big as some others Sam has seen in this street but has definitely way more space than a single person could ever need. They get out of the car and Milla notices Sam's calculating look.

"I bought it with my ex, way back in 1992. We were engaged."

Sam doesn't say anything, can tell that the subject is nothing she is keen on talking about, and so he follows her in silence across the lawn to the covered porch with its white railing and wooden pillars. Milla unlocks the door, gives him a final shaky smile, and - with a "Here we go. Home sweet home" that was probably supposed to be cheerful but turns out apologetic - she pushes the door wide open.

The inside of the house is just as grand as the outside, if not in scale then in completion. The rooms aren't as big as Sam has suspected, the house itself isn't as big as he initially thought, but the ceilings are high and there is no clutter that could minimize space. He definitely won't bump his head on door frames here, and at the thought Sam draws himself up to his full height.

"Do you want a tour today? Or rather explore on your own later?"

They are standing in the middle of a big foyer that leads off to a den or office. Further on down the hallway he can see more rooms branching off to the right and left, maybe the main living area.

She continues to walk, despite her question, and Sam follows - out of habit – until they reach the back of the house. The space at the back of the house is sectioned off by walls, but still appears to be one giant flow of living room into dining room into kitchen. A patio door leads to a back porch and a lush garden, there is a fireplace with a mantelpiece crammed with family pictures, and two inviting looking couches. The sight of them, kitted out with woolen blankets and an army of pillows, reminds Sam that he hasn't slept in a real bed for a really long time. Suddenly, he feels so tired he can feel it in his bones, even though the sun hasn't set yet.

"No tour, thanks. I think I'll crash. Had kind of a hard month, you know."

Milla smiles at his attempt of a joke out of politeness, and they both know it.

"Your room is upstairs. It's usually a guest bedroom for one of my nephews, so I don't know if you'll fit into the bed." She sounds timid now, as if she doubts herself and her plans of looking after them all of a sudden, but again Sam has no time for her hurt feelings, just nods and follows her upstairs. This new tiredness dulls everything; all his agitation, all his pain has made room in his head for the absence of feeling. When she takes him to the second floor and shows him a room with a bed in it, he already sees the world through the blurry haze of exhaustion. The bed is barely 6'5'', a standard twin mattress, and his feet will hang over the edge, but it is a real bed with a real mattress. Right now, this is heaven.

Sam unceremoniously drops his bags to the floor, then turns to Milla, who is still standing in the door frame, her arms crossed and a tense expression on her face.

"See you tomorrow then?"

"See you tomorrow. Sleep tight"

She clicks the door shut behind her, and Sam doesn't even bother to get out of his clothes, just kicks off his boots and falls asleep a second later.

The next morning, he wakes up at dawn, rays of soft morning sunlight stream into the room. There is a little moment of disorientation that he's not woken up by the sounds of Dean's care, reliving the experience of waking up without at crick in his neck and tense back muscles. He stretches a little.

There are sounds downstairs, Milla already up. The scent of fried bacon reaches Sam's nostrils and his stomach growls in response. He'd had no dinner yesterday, and the thought of food makes him forgo a much needed shower.

SUPERNATURAL

Dean has gotten used to being put to bed. It's a familiar routine, now; the nurses wiping down his body with a wet wash cloth, suctioning his trach and changing out the collection bag, arranging him in a comfortable position for the night ahead. He's used to the schedule, but that doesn't make it any easier to do it alone for the first time.

Earlier he'd wanted to be alone, wanted Sam gone. But now he's in a strange room, with a strange roommate and a strange nurse, and the familiarity of the routine doesn't make Sam's absence any less obvious. This is his first night alone. His first night without the reassurance of his brother close by as his own personal advocate. Sam knows him, knows his quirks and his habits and his needs. Sam knows when Dean is in trouble, sometimes even before Dean himself knows.  
Who can he trust to be there for him if something fails? If he has another emergency? Or hell, just an itchy nose? How does Dean call for help?

He's ashamed of himself for thinking such wimpy thoughts, for worrying like such a little baby. And for a brief moment Dean wonders what Sam would think of him if his brother knew how scared his once fearless older brother actually is. But he can't help it; when he's trapped inside his body, screaming for an escape. He thinks he knows, now, what it must feel like to be possessed, knows what his father must have experienced, and Sam; something he's never felt before. Until now. Now he knows what it's like to have something else take control of your own body, to be able to see and think and be afraid, but not be able to do anything about it.

The nurse is new to him, an older woman named Mona with chocolaty skin and her graying hair done up in a thousand tiny braids and pulled back into a ponytail. She talks to him like he thinks a grandmother would her grandchildren, all soothing and calm and gentle. Like Jeanette and Holly, she understands Dean's need to feel hands on his skin where he can still feel, and she stays with him for a good ten minutes after the evening routine is complete just to sit with her hands on his face. Her fingers are rough and dry, from constant washings and not enough lotion, and as she rubs her thumbs in circles on Dean's forehead he decides they feel a bit like Sam's hands. If he closes his eyes he can even allow himself to pretend it is Sam, that he's safe and secure under his brother's watchful eye.

It's probably exhaustion more than anything else, but Dean ends up falling asleep under the calming sensation of the hands on his face. He was convinced that he wouldn't sleep this first night alone, too afraid of the dangers that surround him, the dangers that he can no longer face on his own. But he's somehow managed to convince himself that Sam is still here with him, and that thought alone allows him the clarity of mind to rest.

When he awakens the next morning it is to the sounds of his roommate struggling to dress himself, cursing over buttons on a shirt he has foolishly decided to wear that day. Nurse Chelsea is back, arguing with Kyle about letting her do the buttons for him as he stubbornly refuses.

She finally gives up when she realizes that Dean is awake and she quickly crosses to his bed and hovers over top of him with a bright smile on her face. "Good Morning, sleepyhead. Are you ready to get to work?"

Dean groans to himself and closes his eyes again, deciding it's too early in the morning for perky and upbeat. In his mind he turns over, pulls the covers back over his head, and goes back to sleep. But in reality, Chelsea is having none of that as she gently strokes his cheek and continues talking in her chipper voice.

"You must be hungry, yeah?"

Feeling her hands pull away, Dean knows without even opening his eyes that Chelsea has uncovered him and is currently messing with the g-tube, flushing in fluids and preparing his Ensure. He relents, figuring there's not much he can do anyway, and finally makes himself wake up and face the new day. First step, breakfast.


	5. Chapter 5

**Hey guys, Once again, thanks for all the wonderful reviews! I started to reply, but RL kicked my butt this week and I didn't have time to get back to everyone yet - they're coming, though...promise. So here's what's happening today - I have time this morning to post the story over here, but not enough time to post pictures and format over at LJ. So I'm getting the story up for those of you who want a head start, and the pictures will go up sometime this evening! Will still be posted on my Sunday (EST...). I apologize for the delay!**

**Enjoy the next chapter...**

Dean feels sick. He's trying to focus on getting dressed, on watching Sam shove his stupid, lifeless feet into the shiny new tennis shoes that will probably never get scuffed up for as long as he owns them. He's trying to focus on Lanie, his physical therapist, as she does up the buttons on his shirt and checks the seals on the tubing around his trach. Not that those actions are so much better to be concentrating on, but it sure as hell beats dwelling on the bulky black wheelchair that Lanie has just entered the room with ten minutes ago. And the damn wheelchair is making him ill.

He'd known it was coming, knew it the moment he woke up and was told his life sentence. But knowing and actually doing are two completely different things. And right about now he's not sure that he's ready to face the reality of life in a wheelchair. It's just one more nail in the coffin, one more step that makes the devastating truth of his life all that much more unbearable.

The butterflies that seem to have taken up a permanent residence in his stomach are fluttering frantically inside, the only thing he seems to feel below the neck, and even those he knows are phantom sensations. But the nausea is real, and so is the damn chair. And any minute now they're going to throw him in there and make him pretend that it's liberating, that being able to move around and get out of his room is all he needs to fill the gaping chasm in his life.

Before he's managed to fully prepare himself – and let's face it, not likely to happen any _year_ in the near future – Dean is dressed and Lanie disappears into the hallway to call for an aide while Sam turns a curious eye to the obtrusive wheelchair in the middle of the room.

To Dean, it's nothing new. Same basic structure as the one he'd been stuffed into when Adam had him. It's massive; with four giant wheels that have lots of tread in them for gripping and traction and a solid frame that clearly has been built to withstand hurricanes and tsunamis and every other natural disaster he's not likely to encounter in his current condition. There is a shelf on the back, which Dean remembers is for the portable ventilator, and a curved headrest and giant pads at the end of the armrests for his hands. The thing easily takes up a 4 foot diameter circle, and all Dean can think is _so much for being stealthy and inconspicuous._

The only noticeable difference between this chair and the one from captivity is the obvious lack of a joystick for control. As a matter of fact, this one doesn't seem to have any mode of self-control. _Because you can't do it, you moron_, Dean berates himself, quickly answering his own question before he'd even realized he'd asked it.

Lanie returns with Stu, and she hauls the wheelchair closer to the bed, positioning it carefully as Stu moves directly to Dean's side.

"So you're ready to go for a test-drive, huh?" Stu asks good-naturedly, putting his hands to his hips and waiting for Dean's go-ahead before he starts manipulating his body. It's not the first time Dean has been moved into and out of bed since he arrived, just the first time into a wheelchair instead of a gurney, and Dean has been pleasantly surprised at the amount of respect the staff seems to have for their patients. They all work with an air of necessity, forcing him to understand that everything they're doing for him is for his own good. But despite that, no one begins anything without permission. As easy as it might be for them to simply do, and not ask, the mere fact that he's helpless to object either physically or verbally doesn't stop them from seeking approval to invade Dean's personal space. It's one difference from Adam and Lori Ann that helps to make this whole thing minutely endurable.

But that's where the differences stop. In the end, nothing else has changed. He's still stuck inside his body, screaming to get out and yell that he _can_ _do it himself_. He still is forced to rely on people he doesn't want touching him for the most basic of functions. Feeding him and bathing him and wiping his ass, getting out of bed. Just because he's come to accept the fate physically, doesn't mean he's managed to accept it emotionally. And with his lower lip held firmly between his teeth to stop it from quivering, Dean nods almost imperceptibly and gives Stu permission to move him.

He tries not to cry in front of Sam. He's been doing that a lot lately, and it's really putting a damper on his _manly_ image. But the only way he has managed to keep his eyes dry is to remove himself from the situation. And that's definitely easier said than done.

Particularly today.

He manages to fight it off for a while, though; puts on a strong air as he watches helplessly while Lanie and Stu slide his legs over the side of the bed and Lanie climbs in behind him on the mattress. She supports him upright, leaning his body back against hers and settling his floppy head securely in the space at her neck, between her head and shoulders. They haven't put the neck brace on today, at least not yet, and the muscles in his neck are as weak as a newborn colt. Lanie tells him they've got to get working on rehabilitating those muscles, that he's got a good chance of strengthening them and being able to support his own head again. But for now he flops around like a bobble-head doll.

"How're you feeling Dean?" Lanie asks when they've got him sitting relatively upright on the bed. "You doing okay so far?"

In his mind, Dean wonders what they're expecting of him. What is he supposed to say to that question? He looks over at Sam, standing off to the side with his arms crossed nervously against his chest. He's clearly upset at the circumstances, and Dean can well imagine how scary it must be for his baby brother to see him being manhandled like this. Dean knows, because he feels the same way. And no matter how much he wants to blow this whole thing to bits, start screaming and crying and shooting people, Dean forces his composure for Sam's sake and mouths, 'peachy.' But then rolls his eyes and grimaces as soon as Sam turns away.

Lanie doesn't see his response, but Stu does, and the aide smiles, choosing only to read the positive, and nods his head at the PT as a sign of reassurance.

"Okay, we're gonna scoot you closer to the edge of the bed and then Stu's gonna lift you into the chair. Sound good?"

This time Dean just blinks his prefabricated 'yes' and waits for the action to begin. There's not much to feel; the slightest hint of pressure as they slide him across the bed, Lanie on her knees and Stu straddling Dean's legs as he pulls them toward the edge. His head rocks against Lanie's neck, chin dipping down against the plastic tubing that forces air through the hole in his throat so that he can see his hands folded lifelessly in his lap, but when they reach their destination she gently tips his head back up and he's once again able to see faces and expressions. He can see Stu with his ever eager smile, just waiting to help, and Sam looking all the more uncomfortable as he backs away slightly and leans against the far wall of the room.

_I'm sorry, Sammy. Wish it didn't have to be this way. _And he does - wish for a different outcome, that is – but in the grand scheme of things Dean has to keep reminding himself that he's made this sacrifice _for_ Sam. That Sam is standing in front of him, alive, because he chose to save him. Traded his mobility, his _life_, so that Sam would live. And Dean is determined to ensure that Sam makes the most of this new chance. Truth be told, he doesn't even like the fact that Sam is wasting so much time hanging out with him at rehab. But until he's got things more under control, until he can talk and issue orders without tearing up like it's the first day of allergy season, Dean's realizes that he's just got to suck it up and accept the fact that Sam is here for good.

Dean tries to smile at his brother, offer up some semblance of encouragement in the bleak situation.

Sam barely acknowledges the gesture, though, and instantly Dean's attitude changes. _Ungrateful little brat. _

And then immediately hates himself for the thought. He can't help it. His emotions have been going all screwy and haywire for days now, hot and cold, one minute he's okay and the next he's reacting with fire and brimstone.

The reaction and emotion in his features seems to have alerted Stu, because the guy is suddenly in his face, hands cupping his cheeks firmly. "Hey, buddy, you good? What's going on?"

Dean blinks and tears his gaze away from Sam to look at the aide, once again biting his lower lip as he desperately tries to rein in his emotions. He doesn't say anything, but somehow the gaze latching onto Stu gives away enough without words. The aide nods and drops his hands down to Dean's legs. "It's a long, tedious process," he says apologetically, as though that's the reason for Dean's change in attitude. "It'll get faster in the future. Sorry."

"You ready?" Lanie asks, her sweet voice soft in Dean's ear.

'Yeah,' he replies, knows the response would barely have sound to it even if he did have air to speak.

But it's enough, and before he knows what's happening Lanie and Stu are rearranging positions as the stocky aide leans down and slips his arms underneath Dean's armpits and pulls his body tight against his chest, careful of the tubing going to the vent. The bed shifts as Lanie climbs off and stands up, but her hands never cease to support Dean's neck and head. On the count of three Stu lifts and Dean experiences the weightless feeling of floating as he's lowered into the waiting wheelchair. Immediately, Lanie adjusts his head against the curved support as Stu searches for something at the sides of the chair and finally emerges with black straps that clip together in the middle like a seatbelt. The strap goes across his chest, just underneath his armpits, and it's only once it's securely locked that either one of them lets go.

"Can't have you falling out of the chair," Lanie explains cheerfully as she circles around and crouches in front of Dean.

_I won't fall out,_ he wants desperately to snap. _I'm not that much of a klutz. _But then again, he can't really know for sure anymore. After all, he can't even keep his head upright without something to support him.

Sam hesitantly crosses back to Dean and lowers himself onto the bed, watching the process without ever making eye contact. And Dean doesn't try to make him. He's too focused on what's being done to him.

Stu and Lanie each take a side, and their careful hands grab up his useless legs, bending them at the knee before placing them on the respective footrests. Another strap goes across his ankles to secure his legs. And then one over his abdomen, just above the waist, overkill in Dean's opinion.

It's the straps across his arms, though, just beyond his wrists that really hit home. Suddenly, he finds himself remembering Gordon and being tied up as bait for Sam. He remembers the Wendigo, and hanging by his arms from the cave ceiling. And another time, another hunt with just his father, when he'd been captured and tied up by a witch for days. And now, they've got him tied up again, helpless and unable to break free. And what does it matter that the straps aren't what's keeping him bound to the chair? It's the idea behind them, the symbolism.

The only reason he's getting air is because the ventilator is forcing it into him. Otherwise he'd be hyperventilating right along with all the other symptoms of the panic attack he is currently experiencing. Dean can feel the sweat beading along his forehead and the heat rushing up his neck and over his face. He can't stop the trembling in his neck muscles, nor can he release the solid lock he's got in his jaw. And that's just the physical symptoms.

His mind is racing a mile a minute, flashing image after image of being helpless and tied down, unable to free himself or protect those around him.

A firm grip surrounds his head, his cheeks and chin, and Dean weakly, desperately tries to shake himself free of the vice-like hold. But it's not going anywhere, and he lacks the power or control to escape. He's trapped.

"Dean! Dean, stop it. You're safe. I've got you." Somehow Sam's voice manages to break into his sub-conscious, soothing and calm and worried all at the same time. And then Dean experiences the sensation of falling and he forces himself to open his eyes just as he sees the ceiling come into view as the wheelchair is reclined backwards.

"Dean?" Sam sounds relieved now, and his lips turn up into a smile even though his eyes don't drop the concern etched in them.

It's only once Dean starts to focus that he realizes the grip on his face is Sam, his brother's hands trying desperately to give Dean some sensation of touch. He relaxes into the contact and allows that to be the focal point to his thoughts, manages to push the remainder of his fears aside in that one moment.

"Hey, you with us?" Lanie asks, peering over Sam's shoulder and down into Dean's eyes. She turns at the sound of footsteps and speaks to the newest visitor. "I think we're good here," she says. "He just had a momentary bit of panic. But he's back now." She turns back to Dean and smiles. "Right? Are you okay?"

There is no question that drugs are on the menu if he's not, and Dean manages to rouse himself enough to blink his eyes in confirmation.

"Thanks for coming, though. We'll call if we need anything else."

Sam's hands relax, but he doesn't remove them from Dean's face for several minutes as the group slowly eases back into some semblance of calm. For the most part silence reigns in the room, interrupted only by the constancy of the ventilator and a few random comments from Lanie or Sam about things getting better and everything being okay.

But it's not okay, not by a long shot. And just because Dean has managed to get past his momentary panic attack doesn't mean he's over the image of being tied down. And it certainly doesn't mean he's comfortable being in the chair. But to say that, to explain the emotion behind it, will take a whole hell of a lot more effort than he's capable of expending right now and he seeks deep down inside his reserves for the control to just let things happen.

When it finally seems clear that Dean has relaxed Lanie tilts the chair back to the 45 degree angle it had started at and dismisses Stu with a 'thanks' and a 'we'll call when it's time to get back into bed.'

"Shall we?" she asks when the aide has left the room. Before Dean can answer she's circling the chair and setting it into motion, somehow managing to steer it with controls on the back that he can't see. She speaks loud enough that both can hear, but it seems clear that the conversation is directed mainly at Sam, and Dean just tries to listen and garner as much information he can.

"Dean's got a date with the Occupational Therapist to go over some of the equipment that will be needed for when he goes home. He's the one who will help you choose an appropriate wheelchair and get you set up with a ventilator, get you the best deals on the trach kits. That sort of thing."

"So this isn't the wheelchair he'll be going home in?" Sam asks, interest piqued. He's walking beside Dean, making certain to stay within view, but he's turned to face the PT.

Dean's heart sinks at the choice of words, realizing this is the first time Sam has spoken of the future without a denial of the situation. Until now, he's always been so certain that Dean would walk out of the rehab center; that things would improve. And now, now he seems to have accepted the fact that equipment is necessary. Dean wonders what's changed so much in the past couple of days to make him change his views.

"Nope," Lanie replies in her cheerful voice. "This one is just a loaner; just until we order one for Dean. You will be able to custom fit a wheelchair to Dean's size and needs. I'll let Justin explain more when we get there."

Sam nods thoughtfully, and then an impish gleam appears in his eye. "So we can soup that baby up and really make it something special, huh?" he asks, winking at Dean before looking back to Lanie. "I mean, give it a hemi engine and some chrome wheels, a sleek black paint job, maybe some racing stripes?"

Understanding what Sam is trying to do, Dean frowns, closes his eyes, and tries to drown his little brother out. It's clear that he's trying to make the most of a bad situation, but the last thing Dean wants to do is try and make his wheelchair take the place of his car. There's no comparison, and he'd rather not even try. And speaking of the car, that's just another topic that he'd just assume not discuss. He's trashed, his car is trashed. And there's not much of either left to rebuild.

Lanie laughs, and the sound forces Dean to open his eyes and focus even though he'd rather not. "I'm sure you can come up with something." She stops then, in front of a set of wooden doors, and pushes against a large, circular metal button with the traditional wheelchair logo that symbolizes ADA equipment. The doors swing inward on its own and stops, and she pushes Dean into a large room with several strange looking tables and fewer chairs than Dean would have expected. Several cubicle style offices line one wall, and on the other are tubs and boxes filled with what looks like toys and equipment.

Dean scowls, hopes they don't plan on making _him_ play with _toys_.

She takes them to one of the tables, a rectangular one with a cutout on one side that Dean soon learns is just wide enough to fit his wheelchair, and offers a chair to Sam before excusing herself for a minute.

"You as nervous as I am?" Sam asks when she's gone, actually looking at Dean, making eye contact, for the first time that morning.

Blinking once, Dean scowls.

Sam doesn't seem to know what else to say, apparently isn't sure how to comfort Dean when he can't even comfort himself. But he taps his hand several times across Dean's, the effort mostly futile since Dean wouldn't have even known he'd done it except for the fact that he could actually see the gesture.

It isn't long before Lanie returns with a pale, slightly heavyset man with her. He's vaguely familiar from the meet and greet party the other day, but Dean really hadn't been paying all that much attention that day. He's older than Dean expects of a therapist. Probably in his late 50's at least, and short, maybe 5'6" or 5'7" at the most. His dark hair is peppered with grey, but combed neatly, and he's got wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. He wears the obligatory staff uniform of khaki's and polo shirt, this one a bright red.

"Dean, Sam, this is Justin Moore. He's the Occupational Therapist who will be working with you over the next few months."

Justin smiles and shakes hands with Sam, then greets Dean. "I'm glad to know you both," he says before pulling up a chair on the other side of the table and opening up a thick manila folder he's brought with him. On the tab is Dean's name and injury level, and when Justin opens it up he can see what appears to be medical records and charts.

"I can see we've got our work cut out for us," Justin announces without even glancing at the contents inside. "It's my job to make sure that you've got everything necessary to make your life as easy as possible. And the first thing you need to know is that nothing is too small of a problem. If you're having trouble doing something, you need to let me know so that we can try and fix it. You'd be surprised at the options we have to make your life easier and help you to be more independent."

_Well, gee,_ Dean thinks grumpily, rolling his eyes. _I can't walk. Can't breathe. How the hell are you going to fix that?_

"My brother can't move anything below the neck," Sam says, as though he's reading Dean's mind. "I'm not sure there's much he _can_ do right now."

Justin smiles knowingingly, nodding as he lifts the folder and grabs up a stack of pamphlets. Shuffling through them for one in particular, he begins to explain. "There is no doubt that Dean will experience limits and difficulties. This is just about the worst physical injury a person can receive and still survive. But that doesn't mean we can't create some semblance of independence for him."

_Right here, you bastard_, Dean wants to snarl. _Talk to ME!_

Handing the pamphlet over to Sam, Justin continues. "He's got many options available. There are electronic systems that he can control with his chin or head or by sip 'n puff. It will allow him to control his own wheelchair and watch television or listen to music. He can work a computer, write and surf the internet. There's a whole slew of stuff that Dean will be able to do on his own."

_And then you can put me on display as a new circus act for all the little kiddies to see and point. Golly Gee, wouldn't that just be swell!_ By now Dean's got a permanent scowl fixed to his face, a glare that could kill, and it's just too bad that Sam's the one who got all the super powers in the family because Dean would just love to be able to shoot a deathray from his eye and have it set fire to the Occupational Therapist right where he sits.

Sam finally looks over to Dean and, seeing the look on his brother's face tries an uncertain smile out on him, seeking out a silver lining. "It all sounds promising, huh? Something to look forward to?"

Dean rolls his eyes and pulls the sides of his mouth up into a tight, forced smile that doesn't come close to reaching his eyes. 'Yeah, great.' He mouths. The way Sam looks at him Dean doesn't think his brother has understood what he just said, but to the same degree Sam doesn't seem too concerned to find out either because he immediately goes back to the initial discussion without asking for Dean to repeat himself. To his credit, though, Dean does notice that Sam's head and eyes seem to be moving back and forth a bit more, trying to include Dean in the conversation.

"So what are we looking at here? What do we need to get?"

Justin selects two more pamphlets from his collection, slides them across the table to join the first. There is a similarity with all three pamphlets, everyone of them offering photographs of people in wheelchairs smiling and happy, antagonistic and grating. Dean can't see how these people can possibly be happy in their situation, proud and accepting of the numbness in their legs, their bodies. He doesn't see how he will ever be one of them.

So lost is Dean in musings about the pamphlets that he doesn't realize Justin is speaking until he's halfway through his first sentence. "…a wheelchair, first," Dean hears, and drops his eyes to the multi-page booklet that Justin opens to reveal a full size color spread of wheelchairs and accessories.

Dean fades in and out of the conversation as Justin launches into a full spiel about customizing a wheelchair, but he gets the main points. He'll need a chair that can fully support him, arms and hands, legs and body and head, and one that reclines to relieve pressure throughout the day. A head rest is a must, and he'll need to select a way to control the chair. Depending on his range of motion – which, at this point is about nill – he can choose from chin, head, tongue, or sip 'n puff controls. Also, a shelf for the portable vent. And, just like the loaner chair he's using now, he'll need straps to keep him from falling out, to keep him captive inside his new mobility.

Problem is, Dean's looking at the price list for the chairs and realizing there's no way they can come up with the kind of money they're going to need to pay for one. Once again, Sam is on the same page as he is, and his brother lets out a low whistle.

"Those are some hefty asking prices on these things."

Justin nods, apologetic as he clasps his hands against his chest. "They don't come cheap, I know. And unfortunately, you're just looking at the price for the chair itself. Adding on the necessary extras could potentially double the price. But insurance should cover a large part of it."

Sam purses his lips, but doesn't bother to offer up the fact that they've got no insurance, that once it became clear they were making this town permanent for the next few months the insurance scam pretty much had to go out the window. Something akin to determination finally clouds his expression and Sam's right back into the swing of the conversation. "Right. So we add the chair to the equation. What else? That can't be it."

Once Justin is done listing everything they're looking at a pretty hefty tab. Dean will need a special bed, some kind of a lift to get him into and out of the wheelchair (_like hell_, he thinks), and a special chair for showers and baths. He'll need at least one, and preferably two ventilators. And if he doesn't want to be completely dependent on Sam for the rest of his god damn life then he'll need an environmental control system that allows him to use voice control and head control to open doors and raise up his bed and answer a phone.

It's a lot of damn money. Like, a lot - a lot. And that's only the basics. Doesn't include the extras that might make his life easier. Doesn't include home improvements and transportation. Doesn't include the weekly necessities like medicine and tubes and other medical supplies.

Sam hasn't even bothered to tell him just how much rehab is costing them on a daily basis, hasn't told him how much they spent on a month in the hospital. And yeah, he knows Milla is supposedly footing the bill for some of this, but if he knows his little brother – and he does – Sam is already calculating just how he's gonna manage to pay her back. But Dean just isn't sure how the hell that can happen when, by his count, they're looking at being in debt at close to a quarter of a million dollars by the time he gets released from rehab.

He starts to feel dizzy thinking about everything, head spinning and neck heating up and nausea taking hold. He can't think about it anymore, and he desperately tries to get Sam's attention away from all the pamphlets and information. But of course, no sound comes out, and suddenly his tongue feels heavy and full and takes on a paralyzed quality all its own that keeps him from clicking like he's done in the past.

Thankfully – and how the hell does she do that – Lanie reappears just as Dean starts feeling like he just might pass out. He feels himself jerked backwards and down, and then cool hands on his face and Sam's frantic voice somewhere in the background sounding all moody and emo and apologetic.

Blinking, Dean revives enough to see that Lanie has his cheeks tightly ensconced between her small, smooth hands. She is calling out to him, and explaining things to Sam at the same time, and Dean gets a barrage of words coming at him, all mixed up and jumbled and not making any sense. Really, all he gets out of it is that he's spent too much time in the chair, needs to get back to bed, and then they're pushing him out the door and down the hallway.

Dean feels better by the time they get him back to the room, and he's aware enough as Stu returns to do a reverse of what they did to get him into the chair. Chelsea comes in the middle of the transfer and uses the vent switch as an opportunity to suction his lungs, and the coughing and gagging as he fights for air just adds to his misery.

They lay him on his left side, to give his back a break, and use pillows to prop him up and arrange him like a rag doll – one between his legs, one underneath his right arm, several at his back.

"There now, how do you feel? Any discomfort?" Chelsea asks.

'Fine,' Dean mouths, stone faced and emotionless, thinks _How the hell would I know?_

He realizes that Stu has once again left the room once the initial transfer was completed,

and he's now just looking at Chelsea and Lanie, Sam off by the window trying to stay out of the way. He really wishes the two girls would scram, too, because he's got a lot on his mind and he needs to talk to Sam. But it's only Lanie who leaves, assuring him, much to his chagrin, that she'll be back later in the afternoon for some therapy.

Dean can't help but glare at Chelsea as she pushes some fluids into the g-tube in his stomach and then starts a can of ensure slowly flowing before checking the colostomy bag, emptying it quickly and then reattaching it. He doesn't have time for this nonsense right now. All the time they're wasting, he's certain Sam has been able to come up with a whole slew of hair-brained ideas for how they'll make money, how they'll pay for rehab. And Dean really needs to put a stop to all the thinking before Sam ends up selling himself on the street like a cheap whore.

Somehow, by some miracle, Chelsea seems to read into Dean's need to be alone with his brother right after starting the Ensure. Instead of doing it herself, she hands Sam the cup of ice chips and asks him to feed them to Dean, then excuses herself from the room.

Sam tries to smile as he pulls up a chair beside the bed and spoons out the first sliver of ice, sliding it onto Dean's tongue with a shaky hand. Dean sucks on it greedily as he composes himself for what is to come, prepares what he's going to say. He isn't sure what to say, how to get his point across. He's got to pick his words carefully, knowing how hard it is to be understood. There is no way they'll make it through a long-winded conversation, no way he'll keep Sam's attention on him if his little brother gets upset.

'We have no money,' Dean finally mouths out when the chip has melted. He bites the corner of his lower lip, wondering what his brother's response will be. But nothing could prepare him for the hesitant anxiety that exudes from Sam.

Sam quickly lowers his eyes, a hitch in his breathing as he sets the cup full of ice to the side. "Dean, you can't worry about that. I've got everything under control."

It's several seconds before Sam finally looks back up, and even then it's only because Dean starts clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth to get Sam's attention.

'No. Too much,' Dean insists when he's finally captured Sam's wavering gaze. He finds himself desperately trying to get his point across in his eyes since he's got no sway with his tone.

This time Sam stands up, jumps up is more like it. He nearly takes the chair with him as he moves to get away from Dean, remove himself from Dean's pleading, knowing eyes.

"I don't know what the hell kind of options you think we have, Dean." Sam says, his voice low and level, but barely controlled. He's got all the signs of agitation, hands shaking and the lack of eye contact and the skirting around the subject matter. It's pretty clear that Sam is hiding something but Dean stands about a snowball's chance in hell of actually finding out what until his stupid little brother decides to divulge. And right now, Sam is on a rant that doesn't seem close to ending anytime soon.

"Seriously, Dean, it's not like we've got much of a choice here. I mean, hell…I'm not gonna leave you lying in some bed for the rest of your life. You need a fucking wheelchair. You _need_ the ventilator and the special bed and all of the god damn equipment Justin talked about. A lot of it will just be to keep you _alive_ for christ's sake! You're paralyzed! Have you realized that yet? Do you have any idea just how bad off you really are?"

Dean can't help but roll his eyes sarcastically at that, mouth curling up into a sneer-like laugh. Because, yeah, he kind of knows what the hell's wrong with him. He lives it every freakin minute of every freakin day, and there's really no escaping it. So yeah…he's fucked, and he's pretty much realized that much.

What he hasn't realized, up till now, is just how guilty his little brother is feeling about everything. And if the beginning of his tirade isn't enough to get him to figure that out, what Sam says next sure as hell does.

"Do you have any clue what it feels like to know that you did this to yourself just to save my life?! I'm not worth it, you jackass. I'm not worth you living like…like this. You never shoulda… Damn It!"

_I'm gonna fix this, Sammy. I didn't do this to torture you. This isn't your fault. Please, Sam. _

Sam sinks to the chair, sobs coming fast and heavy from his chest. He drops his head into his hands so that Dean still can't get his attention, and this time Sam's too caught up in his own misery to respond when Dean clicks his tongue.

So he just lays there, silent and helpless, as he watches his little brother fall apart in front of him. He's expected some kind of confrontation about the money issue, but this sure as hell isn't it. He's pissed at himself; pissed for not thinking things through better, for not weighing the options longer. Dean had never really thought of things in this light, but in a way he's done this to himself. And now Sam has to live with it.

Literal minutes go by, Sam sobbing the whole time and Dean trying desperately to figure out a way to console his brother. And then, finally, Sam stands again. His hands shake, and he stares at them as though they belong to someone else. "I have to go, Dean. I'll be back, but right now I have to go. I'm sorry."

SUPERNATURAL

Pain and guilt and exhaustion and shame and a million other emotions overwhelm Sam as he tears from the room. All he can see is red, a burning desire to punch something – anything – as long as it's not his paralyzed, emotional train wreck of a brother. Because he knows that's not right, and as much as he would give just about anything for Dean to be healthy enough to murder, his mind recognizes the major ramifications of attacking him right now.

He stumbles blindly down the hall, trying not to hyperventilate on top of everything else, and eventually makes his way to the cafeteria where a handful of patients and staff watch in shock as he starts beating on the painted cinderblock wall to within an inch of its life. He's screaming nonsense, cursing and spitting and kicking and panting until he suddenly feels arms wrapped around his, squeezing them to his sides and pulling him back away from the wall with quiet shushing sounds whispered into his ear.

For a minute he lets himself think it's Dean. He lets his body collapse completely into the arms, sobbing and heaving into his brother's embrace, and then he remembers that it's not possible for Dean to be hugging him right now, or soothing him, and his sobs get louder as he fights against the person holding onto him.

"Hey, shhh. Sam, come on, shhhh." Finally turning around Sam finds himself with Stu, Kyle sitting in his chair just a little ways off. Sam finally calms down, embarrassed by his display of emotion, and he wipes away the tears from his face and shakes his right hand a bit when he realizes just how much it hurts from pounding it into the wall.

"I'm sorry guys. I don't know what got into me. I'm sorry." He tries to walk away, but Kyle is faster, skirting into Sam's path and grabbing for his bruised hand with more speed than he would have expected possible. Kyle scrutinizes the knuckles for just a second before making a decision.

"Hey Stu, go get him some ice. I got this," Kyle orders to the aide before turning back to Sam. "Sit down. Let's talk."

For some reason, Sam doesn't even question the command despite the fact that he's only used to obeying Dean's and his father's voices. But Kyle's air of authority is enough for Sam to respond, or maybe it's just a matter of need - a need to relinquish control and let somebody else take the reins for a change.

"Now, what's going on?" Kyle demands.

The Winchester's are familiar with clamming up, bottling their feelings and their emotions. But Sam is way past that right now, so done with not having anyone to talk things over with, and he just spills all before he's even got a chance to think about what he's saying. "It's Dean. He's pushing me away and just giving up. Bastard won't even fight for himself!"

Kyle is silent for a minute, scrutinizing Sam and waiting for him to calm down enough to listen. "Then you're just gonna have to fight twice as hard for the both of you," Kyle finally says, forcing Sam to meet his gaze. "This is the point where you can't give up on him, no matter how much he tries to force you away. This is the critical point."

Stu comes back with the ice and Sam busies himself with adjusting it on his bruised knuckles, assessing Kyle's advice as much as he does his next question. He waits, watches, as the aide sits down beside and a little bit behind Kyle, ready to jump in if he's needed but otherwise prepared to stay out of the conversation.

"I don't know how to deal with this. I've never had to deal with something this extreme before. And he won't let me call any of our friends, either." _Not that we have many_, Sam adds only to himself.

"You think there's a manual out there for this kind of thing?" Kyle scoffs. "Dealing with tragedy 101? Quadriplegia for dummies? It doesn't work that way, Sam. Everybody is different. Everyone grieves the loss in a different way, deals with the fallout at a different rate. It's not supposed to be easy – but trust me when I tell you, man…the way you handle this now is going to make a world of difference in the way Dean responds in the future. You just gotta give it time."

Sam sighs, shaking his head as he drops it down into his hand to hide the tears that are about thisclose to falling.

"I wasn't exactly a dream to deal with when I first got hurt either," Kyle adds.

A snort accompanies it, presumably from Stu, and Sam's assumption is confirmed when the aide speaks up. "Understatement of the year. Dude, you were the biggest freakin pain in the ass on the planet. Seriously – Dean's got nothing on you. Had just enough mobility to throw things on the floor and lash out with a mean right hook; not nearly enough to control exactly where things landed. And geez, when you got off that ventilator we could hear you screaming all the way on the other side of the building."

"Thanks man," Kyle mutters good naturedly. "Didn't really need the visual and audio to go with that."

But actually, that's exactly what Sam needed. Because, were Dean able to use his arms he's got a pretty good hunch that he would have been reacting in much the same way. And yet, clearly Kyle has managed to get his emotions under control, get his life under control. Doesn't necessarily mean the same can be said for Dean, but it gives him hope nevertheless.

He swipes his arm self-consciously across his eyes, not having realized he'd actually been crying until he felt the wetness on his shirt. "I really hope you guys are right about him accepting things and moving on. Because I'm not sure how much more I can take of this. Thanks, though. Really."

Kyle smiles, nods. "Just stay the course, man. You guys'll get through this. You seem like maybe you've made it through worse."

_You've got no idea_, Sam thinks to himself as he stands up, intent on leaving. "I think I just need a little bit longer to get myself together – maybe give Dean a chance to let this blow over. Can you do me a favor and tell him I'll be back in tomorrow?"

"Will do, man," Kyle agrees. "You take care of yourself, y'hear. Me 'n Stu – we've got Dean covered."

*******

Sam makes it as far as the parking lot before he realizes he doesn't have a way home. Looking at his watch, he realizes Milla isn't due back for another three hours and he just doesn't have it in him to explain why he's leaving so early. Besides, he's carrying enough pent-up frustration to demolish a small city. An outlet would be nice, and Sam realizes it's been over a month with no real exercise. A walk is just what he needs.

Testing his knee, Sam decides it's plenty healed to handle some low key cardio, realizes it's been over a week since he's even noticed a twinge in the once injured limb, and he starts out toward the main road at a nice, brisk pace.

As he walks, though, his mind filters through everything that's happened since Dean got captured. He finds himself realizing all the simple things he takes for granted that Dean can no longer do, will never do again. Like taking off on a walk, or for that matter, taking off on his own - period. Instead of clearing his mind, the walk ends up just adding more to it, inciting more frustrations and agony. All he wants to do is find a silver lining in all the pain, yet he can't come up with a single positive.

After a while, Sam finds himself in the middle of a park. All around him kids are playing baseball and tennis, climbing on the jungle gym, parents are talking and laughing and yelling at their children. Dogs bark as they run circles around their owners. And the sound of birds chirping overhead provides a soundtrack to the day.

Here, the world hasn't stopped. Here, people go on as though everything is perfect. They have left their cares and their fears behind, escaped their homes and their offices and their hectic lives to live in a sense of solitude and quiet. Here, Sam can pretend that he doesn't have a brother being kept alive by a ventilator, isn't facing a life of wheelchairs and tubes and adaptive equipment. Here, Sam can go back to being a child again, innocent and trusting and so certain of everything in life; knowing that as long as big brother is there to watch out for him everything will be alright with the world.

So why is it that Sam can't allow himself the escape? Why can't he get Dean and the hospital and stupid Adam and Lori Ann out of his mind? Why can't he disappear from the pain just for a few seconds?

Sam closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, drops himself into an empty bench on the outskirts of the park and just watches for a while, willing his mind to go blank. But instead, he unconsciously finds himself reaching into his pocket and pulling out the envelope the banker had given him the day before.

It's wrinkled and worn already, the ink smudged over the 'm' in his name from where sweaty hands have turned the envelope over and over in indecision. He's debated all day over whether or not to show it to Dean, whether he should open if first or they should open it together. That morning, Sam had finally decided they would look together. And then Dean had gone to OT, and he'd ended up in such a foul mood after discussing all the equipment he would need that Sam had no longer been in much of a mood to discuss it with him.

Which brings him back to the present and the overwhelming pull he feels towards that envelope. Like somehow, the answer is inside if he would just open it. But at the same time, Sam has no doubt that the answer to their problems won't come without a huge price and he's not sure it's a decision he wants to have to make. Maybe not having options is better than having too many.

He's got his suspicions about what's inside. There were enough clues in the previous letters to figure out that Adam was trying to support Dean in this new life. What Sam can't figure out is why – why Adam would go to the trouble of paralyzing his brother and then start sending them money. But inside the envelope, Sam is sure he will find the answer.

Shaky hands fumble with the seal, trying to tear it open cleanly and giving up halfway through, ends up tearing it down the center on one side. He pulls out a folded up sheet of paper from inside, opens it to reveal a type-written letter and gulps in a breath as the first line reveals exactly what he'd suspected. Adam had opened up a savings account in Sam and Dean's name, had deposited enough money inside to get them through the first year. And as he reads on, hatred filling his heart, he discovers why.

_Dean Winchester, _

_Or, I should probably be addressing Sam, yes? Because knowing how the two of you operate Sam is probably reading this letter alone, trying to figure out how to protect poor, helpless big brother Dean from evil little me. _

_As I'm sure you have learned by now, I have deposited a significant sum of money into a bank account with your names on it. Five hundred thousand dollars, to be exact. And more will follow as you find need for it. How I came up with the money is of no consequence to you – just know that its origins can't be traced. The money is yours to use, yours to spend on Dean's mounting hospital bills and impending medical needs. Use it for the building renovations you will most certainly require in a place of your own, use it for the equipment he is sure to need. Use it for whatever you choose – just so long as it keeps Dean living, keeps him rotting away in that horrible chair, keeps him eternally dependent on others just to survive, to function in this god-forsaken world. _

_Just as Dean has sentenced me to live as a mere shell of who I once was, so have I sentenced him. Enjoy this new life, Dean. Enjoy the hell it brings you. And just know… I will be watching, witnessing your suffering and pain, and enjoying every single minute of it. _

Sam feels a lump form in his throat as he recoils from the brutal honesty of Adam's letter, folds it back up and tucks it back into the envelope only because he can't bear to leave it lying around for anyone else to find. As he's doing so, he notices for the first time something else tucked into the envelope and reaches in for it, fearful of what else he might find.

It's another photograph, this one of Dean in his room at the rehab hospital. By the darkness of the room Sam can tell it's late. Dean is asleep, propped on his side and supported by pillows, braces on his hands and feet and neck. He is clearly unaware that anyone is even in his room, let alone taking photographs of him, and Sam can't help but let out a little moan of remorse at how easily Dean allows himself to be snuck up on these days, and how little Sam can do about it when he's forced from the room at night.

He's got no clue how the picture was taken. Doesn't know if it was a member of the staff or another patient, or someone sneaking into the building after hours. But the who doesn't really matter as much as the how, and the why, and most importantly the question of what Sam can do to stop it from happening again.

It has never been more obvious to him than now just how helpless Dean is, how much assistance he will require every day, and how much that is going to cost him. The idea of taking Adam's money disgusts him in more ways than he can count, but the idea of allowing Dean to suffer for want of finances scares him more. And Sam can think of no better way than to use Adam's money, and turn around and prove to him just how adaptive Dean can be. They'll show that bastard that Dean can turn this around, can become the picture of peace, make do and persevere with what little he's got left. Adam wants a miserable shell, so they'll shove it right back in his face and prove to him just how happy Dean Winchester can be with his current situation.

Now all Sam has to do is convince Dean of that.

He swallows hard, bites on his lower lip. They've sure as hell got their work cut out for them…

SUPERNATURAL

(Just after their argument…)

Sam doesn't bang the door shut when he leaves, but to Dean his brother's sudden exit still has more than enough dramatic effect, and he stays behind, staring at the wall and contemplating the nature of sacrifices. He has known he fucked up for some time, knew that things wouldn't turn out well even before he touched the joy stick in the old school, before he sealed the deal and tore his life apart. But for some reason the true extent of his failure, the magnitude of the burden Sam has to carry now and that Dean himself put on his brother, hasn't been clear to him until now.

He didn't mean for things to turn out this way. Back in that school, being faced with the choices he was given… wasn't much of a choice, really, his life for Sam's. It's always been Sam, from the time his little brother was placed into his arms after the fire everything has been about Sam. And during the intensity of the moment, when Sam's life was on the line, there was nothing to do _but_ save him.

Except Dean hadn't planned on living; at least not the way he's living now. Sure, he'd understood the ultimatum just fine, understood the semantics of _there's a fucking wire around your spinal cord that will sever all the synapses with one push of the joystick_. But in that moment it just didn't matter. What mattered was the part about moving the chair forward and saving Sammy from being strangled to death. What mattered was the part where Dean didn't plan on surviving the severing of his spinal cord, didn't plan on sticking around to face the torture of what was to come.

And he sure as hell didn't plan on putting his brother through all this torture. Sam doesn't deserve this; he never did. Sam is supposed to have a normal life with a normal job and a normal wife, 2.5 normal children living in a normal house with a normal white picket fence in a normal neighborhood right smack in the middle of the suburbs in Normalsville, USA.

Caring for his disabled 27 year old brother has never been on the agenda. Neither was worrying himself sick over how he's supposed to come up with a quarter of a million dollars just to keep Dean alive for a year. One fucking year – that's it. That's all that amount of money will cover. And then there will be another year, and another one after that, just throwing money away into a black hole. Because let's face it, Dean thinks, he can't even control his neck, let alone any of the other muscles in his body. And with those kind of odds there's no way he's ever going to amount to being a productive member of society.

A black hole; a money pit – that's all he is. All he'll ever be anymore. And the possibility of Sam's future as Dean's constant caregiver is a shit poor way for Sam to be living, especially compared to the potential he's got in other avenues. It all comes down to a sacrifice poorly thought out and then executed in vain. Dean has failed. Failed himself, and failed Sam.

_Oh, Sammy._

Dean is still deep in thought when Lanie comes back to do some stretching exercises. The first thing she does is remove the pillows behind his back and then she slowly rolls him on his back again, one hand keeping his head and neck steady all the way. He knows that he flops around whenever they turn him, and his legs and arms inevitably end up in positions that look unnatural and – it's the first time ever he thinks about it – must be horribly uncomfortable.

She's got him angled in such a way that he can see how his right leg crosses limply over the left, the way both feet are hyper-extended, toes curled in but pointing towards the wall as though locked in an eternal stretch. He can see his arms, so still as they flop against the atrophying muscles in his abdomen, his hands and wrists curled in toward his body. It disgusts him to see what has become of the body he once took such pride in.

Dean has noticed Sam watching him a lot lately, staring expressionless as he fights to hide his emotions, and Dean can't help but wonder if the same thoughts are going through Sam's mind as are going through his own. Is Sam as disgusted as Dean is by the shape of his body? Is he as uncomfortable with seeing the way the limbs curl so unnaturally, as though they're trying to shrivel up and disappear?

He can't help but hate himself for doing this to Sam, for giving his little brother yet one more reason to feel self-conscious and uncertain. Their lives are screwed up enough as it is, constantly feeling the need to hide and blend in, not get caught. And now this… The wheelchair and the ventilator and the mechanics. How do they hide something like this? How do they blend in with a crowd, try to stay inconspicuous when he's suddenly become anything but? It's not fair to Sam to make him have to deal with it.

Lanie doesn't seem to be interested in Dean's philosophical mood and continues to straighten him out in his new position. The pillow between his knees stays where it is, and the one between torso and right arm gets put under his elbow. One last maneuver to adjust his head, then she sits down on the chair Sam vacated a good thirty minutes ago and takes his left hand in hers, massaging it gently. Everyone with a pair of eyes could tell that Dean isn't in the present right now, definitely not in the mood for talking, and so they both stay silent while she carefully bends and rotates each joint in his hand.

"There you go", she says softly as she puts his hand back down on the bed and takes her chair to the other side to start working on the other one. Dean doesn't hear her.

Lanie is just about to finish with her task when a stream of low cursing from the corridor announces Kyle's return and pulls a disoriented Dean out of his thoughts. It's nothing new to see Kyle worked up about something - it's part of his alpha dog act - and he can rant about trite topics like hospital food for hours, but today there is a new dimension of feeling in his voice when he greets Lanie that is unusual enough to attract Dean's attention. And sure enough, instead of transferring to his bed immediately as he normally does, Kyle stops his chair in the space between their beds and turns to face Dean, getting as close to him as possible. Lanie, who has already proven not to be the most perceptive one, doesn't react with more than a smile and a nod before she arranges Dean's hands on his chest and stands up to leave.

"Could you...?", Kyle asks and motions to Dean's head that is positioned to look straight at the wall. "I'd like to have a little talk with him. Just from man to man, you see." He winks, and Lanie laughs and gives Dean a questioning look. _Nothing done to you without your permission_, the look reminds him. _Yeah, how true._

Dean blinks once, because for one thing he doesn't really care what they do to his body right now but mostly because he can tell that behind the flippant facade, Kyle is actually dead serious about something and Dean is still himself enough to find the hint of a mystery absolutely irresistible even in the darkest of moods. Kyle waits until Lanie has raised the bed a little more, turned Dean's head to the left, and is way out of earshot, then all the humor drains from his face like water from a leaky pipe.

"Now listen, kid, I know it's not fair to spring this on you while you still can't talk, but apparently you can communicate well enough to make Sam cry" - Dean squeezes his eyes shut at this; too much information, too much memory, but Kyle is merciless - "no, open your eyes, Dean. Listen to me."

Kyle's voice is so very much John Winchester's now, the same unshakable sense of authority drenching every word, that Dean simply has no other choice than to do whatever the voice asks him to do. When he looks up again, Kyle's face is filled with sympathy.

"Believe me, I know that it's not easy. And it will be far from easy for a long time, but... You see, my point is that life... life really does go on even if you don't believe it ever will. And for that you need your family around. No, Dean, eyes open, remember? So, can you tell me that you weren't trying to push Sam away? Or why else was he punching holes into the cafeteria walls earlier, hm? Dean, just don't, okay? I guess what I want to say is that family is important. Don't make it harder on yourself than it needs to be. And especially don't make it harder for them. It's not only you who's hurting. It's usually just as hard for the family.... sometimes even harder."

At the last words Kyle's eyes wander to the overflowing cork board on the wall, and for the first time Dean can see that Kyle is a father, too, and probably even a good one. His words, however, are nothing but salt in Dean's emotional wounds.

"Just think about what I said, huh?" Kyle implores. His eyes bore pleadingly into Dean's, begging for obedience.

Dean doesn't even try to respond, taking advantage of his inability to speak as an excuse not to. He closes his eyes again, and this time Kyle doesn't order them open. Instead, Dean registers the sounds of Kyle transferring back into bed, and then the muted sounds of a television coming on and the volume turned down low.

His throat tightens reflexively as he thinks about what his roommate has just said, emotions of right and wrong warring with each other in the vast openness of his mind. The logical part of him knows that Sam is hurting too, knows that there is no greater pain than seeing someone you love going through so much hurt. Even back in the hospital when Adam was mocking Dean and trying to convince him that Sam would leave…even then he'd known there was no way Sam was going anywhere. He knows this because he'd be feeling the same way if it were Sam.

But the irrational part of his brain wonders if Sam is only staying out of some skewed sense of obligation. There is no doubt in Dean's mind that Sam feels responsible for what happened to him; Sam as much as admitted it outright. And Sam's got a history of jumping into things without thinking clearly, without realizing what he's admitting to until it's too late to retract. He wears his heart on his sleeve…constantly taking emotional situations and dropping himself right into the middle of them. He's always finding ways to blame himself no matter how little choice he might have had in the situation. Jessica's death was a prime example of that, with Sam ultimately chasing after the demon out of guilt and revenge. Dean can't help but worry that Sam is thinking the same thing now, refusing to leave Dean behind because he blames himself for the decision Dean made.

Dean can't let him do that. Somehow, he's got to make this right.

He's still worrying about Sam and his misplaced idea of duty when Mona comes in to start his evening routine. Like Lanie, the older woman seems to realize that Dean isn't really in the moment, isn't up to participating in a conversation. She seeks his permission to begin, but then leaves him to his thoughts as she goes about her duties. It's all more of the same as she suctions his trach and flushes water into his stomach through the g-tube before starting his dinner. And as the Ensure is flowing, she grabs a washcloth and a basin of soapy water and starts to bathe him.

It's nothing he hasn't experienced before, but usually he manages to tune it out and find someplace in his imagination that he'd rather be.

This time is different.

This time Dean starts paying more attention to the actual tasks and to Mona's part in them. He starts to imagine Sam in that job, acting as a caregiver and a nurse. They don't have money; there's no way they can even pay for rehab, so Dean knows they won't be able to afford in-home care. It will be all on Sam, his _baby_ brother. Dean can't even begin to stomach it.

The worst part by far is the bowel routine. He always makes sure he's somewhere else for this one, absolutely despises the idea of someone else being _down there_, physically stimulating him to make him take a crap. This time, though, he watches. Because he wants to understand what he's subjected Sam to, wants to remind himself of just how bad things are and how much they can't stay this way.

Mona frogs his legs, bending them out and up, and then tucks pillows underneath to support them as she slides a waterproof pad under his ass before beginning to collect the supplies she will need. She's got gloves and suppositories and wipes, and just watching her begin the routine is beyond unbearable. But then it gets abundantly worse when he imagines Sam in her place and begins to picture what it would be like to have Sam doing for him everything the nurses do. Dean isn't sure who would hate it more - himself or Sam – but he decides right then and there that he doesn't want to find out.

Dean feels his face begin to flush just thinking about it. It's bad enough that Sam feels guilty for Dean being paralyzed, but he'll be damned if he lets Sam start to resent him for having to take care of him. It can't happen – no matter what, Dean can't let their relationship go beyond brotherhood.

He finally closes his eyes when things start to _happen _down there, when his insides get to churning and releasing and suddenly he can no longer stomach even the idea of what's happening. This is why Dean always breaks away, because he can't deal with the reality.

He doesn't even realize when Mona finishes with him. Once he'd turned off his awareness of the outside world that was it. His mind has wandered elsewhere, to a place where Sam can be Sam and Dean isn't standing in his way, a place where disabilities and wheelchairs and home care are just things out of other people's worlds. Not theirs. He's thinking of a place where Sam is free of Dean and his problems, where Dean is simply free.

Something jars him back several minutes (or hours?) after Mona is gone, but he never registers what it is. Just that it makes him return his thoughts to his room in the rehab facility, makes him come back to his nightmare. Everything is darker now. Only the emergency lights are still lit in the room and the hallway, and the floor is quiet. He knows Kyle must be asleep, but can't turn his head to verify that. And he knows he needs to be sleeping too. He's just not ready yet.

Admittedly, it has been a pretty tiring day, with all the thinking and freaking out and stuff, but Dean has had more exhausting ones and he won't give in to sleep just yet. But with the medicine the nurse administered just at the end of his bedtime routine flowing swiftly through his veins it is becoming more and more difficult for him to keep his eyes open. He can tell he's starting to fall asleep as his thoughts become muddled and the sound of Kyle's soft snoring merges with the whoosh and swish of the ventilator, creating a unique hissing sound that Dean ironically finds soothing.

He fights the sleep with all his might, despite the fact that even if he was able to turn his head away from looking at the ceiling, there would be nothing to see in the dark room. That doesn't matter right now. What matters is that Dean desperately needs to figure some things out before Sam inevitably returns. He knows his little brother won't stay gone for long. There is a solution to all their problems at the end of all this thinking, Dean's absolutely sure of it, but right now all he gets is the result of "Sam must be free of this" without any idea of how to achieve it.

He sinks farther into sleep, falling into that final stage between awake and asleep when suddenly something changes. Something bad, he knows, but for a split-second he can't tell what exactly it is; then all the air is gone from his lungs.

In an instant adrenaline has him wide awake and realization comes to him at once. Alarms scream as he tries ineffectually to gulp in air against lungs that refuse to respond to his brain's request. He immediately rewinds to a time not so long ago in the hospital when Lori Ann had pulled the plug on his ventilator. It's a nightmare he has refused to acknowledge since that time, unwilling to think it could happen without her ruthless hand causing it.

An eternity goes by in the dark as Dean struggles against the blatant tightening in his chest and his lungs expend the last of their remaining air. And then there are footsteps and voices. A light goes on overhead, blinding him as he blinks furiously in the war with black spots on fluorescent lighting.

The stillness of the night turns into organized chaos as orders are given and carried out. "It's a pop-off, people. Kate, check the plug. Thomas, the lines on the vent. I've got the trach site."

"We gotcha, baby. Nothing's gonna happen to you." Mona's face, expression serious and business-like, appears above Dean but she doesn't look at him as her fingers gloss easily around the seals on his trach. He feels the tug and push as she secures the seal before working her way down the tubing.

It's right then, at Mona's words, that the answer comes to Dean. Suddenly Dean realizes that this is his out. Sam's out. Just a few more seconds without air and he'll slip into oblivion, then death and a release from the hell he's found himself in.

He stares at the ceiling, a calm finally settling over him as he waits for the inevitable. Fully prepared for what is to come. He knows Sam can get over his death, just like he got over Jess's and their dad's, and someday he might even come to appreciate the sacrifice Dean made for him so that he might have a better life. Resignation settles over Dean and he stops struggling and lets his eyes slide closed, ready for death to take him.

"Guys, we're gonna lose him. Get me the ambu bag!"

Dean's eyes shoot open, not expecting the measures the nurses are prepared to take to save him. 'NO!' he mouths, blinking his eyes two times over and over again. There is sudden panic in his expression. 'No, please. Nononononono."

Mona isn't even looking at him, though, as she removes the hose from the trach and replaces it with the mouth of the ambu bag. She is squeezing before the equipment is fully sealed, and Dean suddenly finds himself choking on the stale air that she pumps into his rebellious lungs.

He keeps blinking and mouthing 'no' over and over again until finally Mona looks up at him with confusion in her eyes. "We gotcha, hon. I promise," she insists, smoothing the sweat dampened hair from his forehead.

_I don't want you to promise!_ Dean wants to scream. _I don't want your help. Just let me go. It's better for everyone._

But Mona either isn't understanding the frantic no's he keeps blinking or she doesn't want to, either way she is conveniently overlooking his desperation to be freed from the prison he's been trapped in for the last month; a life sentence with no parole.

She just keeps pumping air into his lungs as the rest of the nursing staff inspects the faulty equipment for the malfunction. Tears finally well in Dean's eyes when Thomas lets out a relieved 'got it,' and then makes quick work of sealing the leak before they trade off the ambu bag for the vent once again.

The hissing of the machine starts up again and the three nurses look down to see what they perceive as tears of joy. "See baby, I told you we weren't going to let anything happen to you. You're fine," Mona says. She has yet to stop stroking his hair, and Dean trembles in frustration underneath her ministrations.

'NO! I wanted to die!" He mouths to her, still blinking a steady stream of 'no.' Two blinks and a pause, two blinks and a pause…

"Sweetheart, I don't understand," She says, finally realizing Dean is trying to tell them something. "Say it again."

'Let. Me. Die." Dean repeats the words slowly, enunciating each one with his lips in an effort to be understood. It's still only Sam who can read his lips so well; no one else even comes close.

She still doesn't get it, and neither do the other two nurses at her side. Dean's anxiety gets worse, desperation to be understood coming out in the only way possible. His face get's red, sweat beading on his forehead, and he makes an attempt at holding his breath.

It's that – the action more so than the result – that has Mona coming to a realization that Dean isn't exactly pleased with the lifesaving measures that have been taken. "He's panicking. Someone needs to call his brother. Thomas, go. And a sedative – Kate, go get approval from one of the doctors. Come on, move it team!"

His attempts to hold his breath are met with the reality that he doesn't control his own lungs, can't save himself by breathing, but can't kill himself either. Frustrated beyond all reason, Dean does the one thing he can control, bites down so hard on his lower lip that it begins to bleed and Mona calls louder for someone to hurry up with that sedative.

Within moments there is a syringe in Mona's hands, brought within his line of sight and down towards his neck where he feels a slight prick and suddenly lines blur and sounds mix and everything gets hazy. He thinks he hears a male voice – Kyle probably – comment on what a stubborn son of a bitch he is, and then it's all psychedelic colors and distorted voices and a sense of fading and floating.

*****

The sedative doesn't put him fully out like the ones at the hospital used to. This one is more of a twilight haze, just enough to keep him on the edge of lucidity and awareness but still ease the anxiety screaming throughout his body. He's got no concept of time as detached voices filter in and out of his awareness. He sees a few faces over the course of his haze, vaguely recognizes the soothing gestures for what they are as hands stroke over his sweat soaked forehead.

At some point, Dean senses a bit of a frenzy in the room as the gentle massage of fingers on his face comes to a halt. He forces heavy eyes open, blinks several times to clear the haze, and can finally make out a tall shadow fidgeting anxiously just inside the doorway, lit by a soft glow of the hallway light. He can tell in an instant that it's Sam, clearly still sleepy. His hair is a mess, disheveled and matted and flying every which way. He's wearing a wrinkled t-shirt that he's most likely been sleeping in, and when Sam steps closer Dean realizes that it's one of his favorite Metallica shirts. _Aww, Sammy._

The sound of voices – Kyle and Sam and Mona - conversation filters in around him, hollow and distant, and he only picks up on a few choice words. Pop-off. Panicked. Could have died. _I wanted to die_, he thinks. _They should have let me die._

And then Sam is hovering over him, eyes puffy and red from crying and interrupted sleep. "Dean, I'm so sorry about everything. I should have been here, should have come back sooner. I'm sorry you had to go through that alone."

Dean can't look at Sam. He looks away, eyes roaming to the window as he lets his head roll to the right. He blinks back his own tears and tries to forget the fact that Sam is crying as well. All he can think about is how his one chance to make things better has been ruined. The nurses at this place are too quick, too well trained. He shouldn't have survived the pop-off; shouldn't have been saved. Shouldn't be here wondering how he can explain to Sammy that his plan has failed, but that it was meant to help.

"Look at me, Dean." Sam orders. There is a quiver in his voice that he can't hide, but he doesn't seem too concerned about it at this point.

_I can't_, Dean wants to say. _I can't look at you, Sam. I've failed you – again. Shit-poor excuse for a big brother, I am. Can't protect you, can't save you. I can't even die right for you._ He squeezes his eyes shut, tight until he sees stars in the blackness behind his eyelids. It serves a dual purpose: to keep the outside world out and to keep his despised tears in.

"Dean, please look at me. We need to get past this. We need to fight together – I can't fight for the both of us."

'I don't want you to fight for me,' Dean mouths out, finally realizing that Sam isn't going anywhere if he doesn't say something to get rid of him.

"What, Dean? What did you say?"

Sam is so excited at the prospect that Dean has decided to communicate with him that Dean almost can't bring himself to repeat it. But he reminds himself that he's got to be the responsible one, needs to be the one to send Sam back out into the world where he can find a life for himself.

'Don't. Fight. For. Me.' Dean repeats, forming his mouth perfectly around each word so that Sam is sure to understand. 'Didn't. Want. You. Here.'

He knows that must sting, is even more certain of it when he watches Sam flinch and take a while to recover.

"Did you tell the nurses not to call me?" Sam demands, angry. And he doesn't seem entirely surprised at the question he's asking although it still clearly disgusts him. Dean figures Mona must have filled Sam in on more than he'd thought – just as sure as he knows Sam denied the possibility until just this very second.

One blink, yes, is all Dean offers. He keeps his eyes closed after that, fighting back more tears that threaten to spill.

There is a pause as Sam takes in the implications of Dean's actions, thoughts, and then incredulousness, whispered. "Did you tell the nurses not to reconnect the ventilator? Did you ask them to let you die?"

Dean keeps his eyes shut for a long time. The actual act of dying, he realizes, doesn't scare him. But admitting it to Sam terrifies him. And he realizes that letting himself go without finalizing things with Sam is the cowards way out. He doesn't want to admit that he's a coward – no matter how much it means saving Sam in the end.

Finally, Dean opens his eyes, slowly as though the lids are made of several tons of lead. He stares through Sam, refusing to connect with his brother's steel gaze, and then allows his eyes to close again. One blink. Yes.

"Oh god, Dean. Why – why would you do something like that? Why would you give up on life like that?"

He doesn't want to explain, isn't really sure he _can_. But Dean knows he owes Sam something. 'For you.'

Sam gets that one right off the bat, eyes going wide. "For me?! Why would you think I want you to die?"

'Too much money. Too much time.'

"Dean…"

'Burden. Can't let you ruin your life.'

Sam doesn't seem to get the whole of Dean's words, but he catches onto the first and he's livid when he responds. "If you think for one second that I would even think twice about whether or not to be here for you one hundred percent then you're delusional," Sam snaps. "You're not a burden to me – you never could be. I'm right where I want to be, Dean. Don't you think _I_ should be allowed to make my own decisions?"

It's a hard question to answer, a trap really, and Dean immediate response is to _not_ respond. Because, yeah, Sam needs to make his own decisions. He needs to be independent, and that's pretty much the point Dean is trying to get across. But right now Sam is thinking with his heart and not his head – he's not thinking about the years and years worth of servitude he'll be subjecting himself to by choosing to stay with Dean. He's not thinking about the limitations he will face, the experiences he'll lose out on. And for that, Dean has to be the one to make the decisions. Sam isn't ready to choose for himself – not this.

"I asked you a question, Dean," Sam says when enough time has passed in silence. "Don't you think it's only fair that you let me make my own decisions about my life?"

When Dean still refuses to answer, Sam sighs and tries another tactic. "Okay, Dean, here's the deal. You're making it pretty obvious that you don't want me around. I can't for the life of me figure out why you would want to go through this alone…lord knows I couldn't do it…but it's clear that you're trying to get rid of me. So just say the word. Tell me to leave, tell me to never come back, and I'll go. Is that what you want?"

An eternity passes as Dean runs through the scenario in his head. It's exactly what he wants. It's what he's been trying to say all along. Dean blinks once, ready to leave it at that, and finds some uncontrollable force pushing his eyes closed a second time. No. _No, that's not what I want._

No matter how much he wants to, he can't push Sam that completely out of his life. He can't live without his little brother – that was the point all along, the reason why the pop-off was such an opportunity. Because he wouldn't have had to be left alone… Sam could get past it; that much he knows. But Dean also knows that he has always been the weak one, the one that can't live without his family there by his side, the one that can't be left alone.

He blinks twice again, tears on his eye lashes as he finds that he can't look at his little brother, too afraid that his weaknesses are on display for all to see. Before long he feels Sam's hand fall gently to his forehead, callused thumb stroking gentle lines against the creases in his furrowed brow. Dean leans into the gesture, desperate to soak up the touch that he craves so much. He resigns himself to let tonight go, to not dwell on what might have been and instead look towards the future and finding his next opportunity.

In the meantime, he will let Sam stay. Under the guise that Sam has asked it, not because Dean is too weak to let his brother walk away.

Sam lets out a soft snort as Dean starts to relax under his touch, falling once again under the spell of the light sedative he'd been given. "This has been quite a night, hasn't it big bro. Quite a day, really. Almost as exciting as old times, right?"

Sam can't leave Dean alone today no matter how much he wants to. Yeah, he's pissed as hell at his brother; hates the fact that the stubborn SOB had tried to forbid the nursing staff from calling Sam out there the night before. And the fight they had, Dean's insistence that he's a burden, useless, Sam could just about haul off and smack him. Nevermind the fact that Sam had said it first, that Sam had alluded to the fact that he resents his big brother for sacrificing himself so that Sam could live. He hadn't really meant it then and he doesn't mean it now. None of that matters anymore. None of it. The pop-off, the reality that one tiny little malfunction in the equipment could mean the difference between whether Dean lives or dies; that's what's important right now.

Problem is, they're both damn stubborn mules. And it's a sure bet that Dean doesn't want see him anymore than Sam wants to see Dean, neither one of them willing to extend the olive branch and start over. He's got no doubt that last night's submission had been borne out of fear, anxiety, and probably a little bit of sedatives coursing through Dean's system. Every chance in the world suggests that Sam is going to walk back into Dean's room to find him grumpy and irrational and probably combative. He's really not looking forward to facing that on the cusp of his own panic at the phone call he'd received about Dean's pop-off.

The only thing that's got Sam trudging into the rehab center today is the knowledge that right now it's got to be him. If they're going to get over this, get past it, it's got to be Sam that caves first. Not necessarily because Dean will never back down first (because he probably would), but because Dean isn't able to chase after Sam when he finally comes to his senses.

Looking at his watch, Sam steps out of Milla's car and offers her a brief nod of thanks for the ride before closing the door. It's going on three o'clock in the afternoon. He's stayed away long enough.

The woman hesitates at the wheel, and Sam can see the gears turning in her head, searching out one more way to ask if he wants her to stay. She knows something is up between him and Dean, but Sam hasn't been willing to give her any details. It's clear her mother-henning instincts are itching to come through and fix whatever is wrong, but Sam is keeping her just on the shy side of informed, and there's nothing she can do until he lets her in.

Determined steps take him away from the car before she has a chance to ask. Sam hears the gears final shift and the car starts moving as he makes it to the entrance, and he forces himself not to look back. Ball is in his court, and Sam's pretty much resigned himself to doing the right thing whether he wants to or not. He raises his chin high and pushes through the doors into the entry hall, doesn't stop for pleasantries with the receptionist he's come to recognize, and makes his way steadily down the maze of hallways until he gets to Dean's room.

That's when he stops dead in his tracks, hand poised over the doorknob. The door is cracked open and he can hear voices inside; Lanie and Stu.

"He had a vent pop-off last night," Stu is explaining. "Nurses said it shook 'im up pretty bad, but he put up a hell of a fight when they called his brother."

Lanie's concerned voice comes next, and Sam can only assume she's talking directly to Dean. "You didn't want Sam here? That surprises me. That why he's not here now?"

There is a slight pause where they must have given Dean an opportunity to respond, and then Lanie is speaking again. This time there is an edge to her voice, like she's trying hard to stay polite, but she has to restrain herself. "I don't know who pissed in your cornflakes this morning, Dean, but I'll ask you not to speak to me that way."

Sam has no idea what his brother's just said, but he's got a pretty good idea and he's guessing it involves some pretty colorful vocabulary. Deciding he'd better go in there and rein him in, Sam moves for the door once again, and suddenly finds himself frozen on the spot, unable to move. He doesn't _want_ to go in there right now, doesn't want to face Dean and his anger and indifference. Doesn't want to be the bad guy that reprimands him for responding to a god-awful situation that sure as hell would have Sam reacting much the same way. He just doesn't have the energy for it.

Moving so that his back is against the wall, Sam breathes low and long, trying to get his mind under control as he continues to listen to the sounds coming from Dean's room. From his angle, now, he can actually see through the crack in the doorway. They already have Dean moved into the wheelchair, and Lanie is standing in front of him with the portable vent hosing in her hand. Dean's still hooked up to the stationary vent, and his eyes are wild with hatred, nostrils flaring as he stares at the therapist.

Sam knows he should go in there, offer a hand. But instead of helping, he hides away like a coward, skulking in the shadows outside of Dean's door and just watches, a voyeur setting his sights on his biggest prize.

Too far away from his brother, Sam isn't able to make out what Dean says next, but he guesses it isn't any better than the last comment Dean had made. Lanie shifts on her feet and leans over him, one hand braced on either side of the wheelchair.

"I won't tolerate that kind of language here, and I won't tolerate the name calling. I'm giving you a choice – you can do this the easy way or the hard way, but you've got therapy today no matter how you want to play this."

It hurts, what Sam sees next, because what he sees cross his brother's expression appears to be resignation. Dean seems to calm down, no longer spouting silent curses and putting up a fight with what little he's got left. Lanie seems to relax, too, as does Stu, and within seconds they're swapping out the ventilators as though nothing had happened.

Sam doesn't miss Dean's wince when the first hose is disconnected. The reaction is raw and unchecked, unmistakable, showing the fear that Dean had tried so hard to deny the night before. His brother's mouth moves up and down, trying to gulp in air in a way Sam hasn't seen since the first few days in the hospital. That desperation, like he doesn't trust another breath will come.

An acidy bile rises in his throat at the sight, hating that he's witnessing it, hating that he's too terrified to step in and offer comfort. Frozen in place, Sam can only watch and finally sigh in relief as the new hose is connected and Dean receives the breath of air that he's been so desperate for. The change is immediate, Dean's desperation and fear being instantly replaced by a quiet indifference that is neither anger nor relief. He has merely accepted his current position and chosen not to react to it, good or bad.

"Alright, we're set here. Let's get you to the therapy room and get those limbs moving, shall we?" Sam waits just long enough to see Lanie circle the wheelchair for the handles before he's on the move, ducking into a vacant room to avoid being seen when the trio exits his brother's room. He waits for a count of fifty before peeking out the door and watching them disappear around a corner.

Sam knows where the therapy room is, so he's not terribly concerned about following immediately behind. He lingers for another couple of minutes, just to be sure he won't run into them stopped in the halls somewhere, then finally sets off at a steady pace. It's not that he truly enjoys spying on Dean this way, but Sam's got a need to know how things are going – the truth of how things are going. Because if he thinks about it, tries to interpret his brother's mood the night before, Sam would have staked money on the fact that Dean had given up. But watching just now, he could see a desire to be strong, to fight, to live. And Sam's really got to figure out just what the hell Dean is playing at here, because something is seriously wrong. He just doesn't know what.

The room where the majority of the therapy activities takes place is as large as a full sized gym, complete with an overwhelming supply of tables and equipment and people. It's easy to get lost in the room if no one knows to look for you, and Sam finds a spot behind some workout equipment that he knows Dean can't use and disappears in its mass.

From where he stands he's got a pretty good view of the goings on all throughout the room, can see the large table that Lanie and Stu are currently lowering Dean onto. It's square, about the size of a double bed, with a wooden frame and a large blue pad that reminds Sam of a gymnastics tumbling mat. They remove the ventilator from the wheelchair and set it up by Dean's head, and then Lanie sets to work as Stu disappears.

She starts with the same exercises Sam had watched them use in the hospital; Range of Motion exercises, Sam remembers, or ROM's. But she's already working him harder, pushing Dean's legs back farther to his chest and extending the limbs and muscles higher in the air. Sam isn't close enough to hear anything she is saying, but he can see Dean's face and it amps Sam's confusion.

It's not like Sam is expecting determination; he knows Dean's prognosis just as well as his brother does, and recovery isn't an option. The therapy is only meant to maintain muscle tone and reduce spasticity, keep his brother from becoming stiff and immobile to assistance. But up until now he's always seen a flicker of hope in his brother's eyes, a thought that if he concentrates hard enough he might defy the odds and feel something, move something. There is none of that now; and in its place is a steely resolve of anger and hatred. He's glaring at the therapist as though he might be able to make her disappear, and although his lips aren't moving Sam can only imagine the colorful words that must be flying through his brother's head.

After the ROM's, Lanie moves onto some new exercises that Sam hasn't seen done before. She disappears for a minute and returns soon after with help, another young kid like they'd had at the hospital and Sam assumes this is another student. The boy has an infectious grin that even has Dean smiling for about half a second before he remembers himself and resumes the scowl.

For several minutes the trio doesn't move much, as Lanie talks – explaining the next step, Sam assumes – and her assistant listens like an attentive puppy. Sam notices that Dean's got his eyes closed during this, although whether he's just resting or trying to remove himself from the situation is unclear. Soon Lanie is in motion again, directing the action. She has her aide take his place behind Dean, hands on his shoulders, while Lanie takes his legs. Together, they maneuver Dean so that his legs are hanging over the edge of the table, and then they pull him into a sitting position.

It would appear, from Sam's careful observation, that they're working on balance of some sort. But for the life of him he can't figure out what the use of that is for someone in Dean's situation. The boy at Dean's back is supporting him from behind as Lanie lowers herself into a crouch at the front, hands wrapped around Dean's wrists. On her say-so both let go but continue to hover within centimeters of their original position. In a matter of milli-seconds Dean begins to slouch to the right, and their quick hands stop the momentum and set him right again. They try it again, and again, every time with the same result until Sam begins to feel as though the exercise isn't meant to be helpful at all, but rather a new means of torture. It's like some obscure game bullies play with their victims on the playground, shoving the helpless victim back and forth as they taunt him.

Judging from the disheartened expression on his brother's face, Sam figures Dean's feeling about the same way he is. Finally seeing enough, Sam decides it's time to step in and interrupt the daily fun. If this is all they're going to do for Dean they might as well send him home and let Sam care for him.

Drawing himself up and securing the necessary confidence he knows he'll need, Sam steps from the shadows and circles around several pieces of equipment so that it looks like he's coming from the entrance to the room. The last thing he needs is for his brother to figure out he's been spying.

"Hey, guys, what's going on here?" Sam says brightly, hoping his cheerfulness doesn't seem as forced as he knows it is. "Dean, you're sitting up! That's great."

Dean glares at Sam, and Sam ignores him as he directs his attention to Lanie. "So what's this little exercise you've got going on? What's it meant to do?"

"We're working on strengthening Dean's abdominal and back muscles," Lanie replies, not a hint nervous or self-conscious of the fact that Sam's just walked in on them.

Sam nods thoughtfully, nervously considering his next question because he knows just how careful he needs to be about his wording. Asking flat out why they're doing that since Dean isn't ever again going to have the muscle capability to hold himself up will only succeed in hurting his brother. But then again, how else is he going to get the question answered.

As he's contemplating his words, Lanie jumps in to continue her explanation, saving Sam for the time being. "Quadriplegic's have a tendency to get what is informally called 'quad belly' where their stomachs distend because of a lack of musculature to keep them sitting straight. If we tackle that problem now and work on building and maintaining strength we just may be able to keep your stud of a brother here in tip-top shape for all those women that undoubtedly chase after him." She winks at Sam and he, in turn, can't help turning to Dean with a goofy grin on his face, all set to give him the raised eyebrow and the silent question of _hear that, man? You still got it._

But if anything, Lanie's comment seems to dampen Dean's mood even more. He doesn't even meet Sam's eye as Lanie and the –as of yet unnamed – assistant lower Dean back down to the table and scoot him to the center again.

Sam isn't done trying, though. "My brother's a real ladies man," Sam volunteers. "You should see this guy work a room; I swear, give him about 5 minutes and he'll have half the girls eating out of the palm of his hand."

Dean rolls his eyes and glares at Sam, and it's abundantly clear by his expression that he's hating Sam for saying that. Sam pretends not to notice, pretends he doesn't understand what Dean is thinking. _That was then. This is now._ But it's hard not to when his once self-assured brother is wearing a hangdog expression that would turn anybody off. Wheelchair or not.

He's all set to try another tactic, but the words get stuck in his throat and try as he might he just can't manage to push out any more enthusiasm when the response is so far from positive. Instead, Sam just nods in defeat and steps back to watch as Lanie finishes the exercises and collects help to bundle Dean back into his wheelchair. Dean never once makes eye contact with Sam the rest of the session, in actuality doesn't make contact with anything but the ceiling, and Sam feels his gut clench at the sheer devastation that has taken over his brother's mental state.

---

Dean's mood doesn't improve on the way back to his room, like Sam hopes, and it really doesn't help matters any when they walk in only to discover that Kyle has visitors. They're barely through the threshold when Kyle's booming voice and eager smile greet them. He's got a toddler on his lap, dressed in corduroy overalls and a blue t-shirt, short blond locks peeking out underneath a child-sized baseball cap.

"Hey! Dean, Sam, I was hoping you would make it before my family left. This is my wife, Melissa, and my kids, Patrick and Stephanie - Steph." He gestures to the little boy he's holding and then to the young girl, blond haired and blue-eyed – just like her brother, sitting on the bed in a yellow seer-sucker sundress as the woman sitting next to her rises and crosses the room.

"Melissa, this is my roommate, Dean, and his brother, Sam."

"Kyle talks about you all the time," Melissa says gently, a soft smile across her face as she quickly shakes Sam's hand and bends down to Dean. She puts her hand across his, ignoring the look of irritation across Dean's face. "He thinks very highly of you. I'm so glad to finally meet you."

Dean doesn't react; no reply, no change in expression, nothing. And after a few awkward seconds Melissa removes her hand and backs away as Sam tries to salvage the conversation. He relies on his hunter's instincts, ingrained interview skills, to steer the conversation away from his brother. Experience has taught him that parents like to talk about their kids, and kids like to be talked to, so he crouches down to eye level with the little girl on the bed and beams at her.

"You're Stephanie, huh? How old are you?"

She grins right back, revealing a gap-toothed smile where one of her teeth is missing, and eagerly holds up her hand in Sam's face. "Stheph," she corrects him. "I'm five. But I'll be thicth in July," she reports excitedly, lisping on the 's' sounds."

"Oh yeah? Wow, six." Sam asks, over emphasizing the enthusiasm as he's learned to do. "That's so old, Steph! I bet you'll have to get a job after that, huh?"

Stephanie giggles mercilessly, clearly enamored with Sam. "Noooo, thilly," she says, drawing out the 'no' with a shriek and another giggle. "I'm thtill in thchool."

Sam pretends to grab his chest and fall over from shock, inciting more giggles from Steph and finally encouraging Patrick to join in. "You can't possibly still be in school! What grade are you in?"

"I'm only in Kindy-garten!"

"No way," Sam jokes. He turns to Patrick. "Your sister can't be just in kindergarten. That's impossible!"

Patrick laughs, puts his chubby little hands over his face and pulls them down to his neck.

"So how old are you, little man?"

Feigning shyness, Patrick turns and buries his face in his father's chest, but continues to peek out at Sam through spread fingers. Kyle laughs.

"Since when are you shy? Tell Sam how old you are."

Not wanting to be left behind in the excitement, Steph joins in like a little mother, and coaxes her brother. "How old are you, Pattie?"

The little boy hides his face again, laughing as he does so, and then Melissa is at his side, poking him gently like she's tickling him to get him to look out again. "Are you this many?" she asks, holding up two fingers.

Patrick nods again, giggling, and finally lifts his hand to reveal two plump fingers. "I two," he admits proudly.

Before he can reply, Sam feels a tug on his shirt and he turns back around to see Steph staring intently at him, a suddenly serious expression on her face as she points to Dean. "Everybody elth ith happy. How come he looks tho thad?"

Looking around the room Sam realizes that everyone else, Lanie included, is smiling and having a good time with the kids. Everyone, that is, except for Dean, who has been staring straight ahead at the empty wall, obviously trying to melt into the floor and disappear, ever since introductions were made. But the expressions seem to fall just a bit at the innocent question.

Melissa looks down at her hands uncomfortably. "When Kyle got hurt, we encouraged the kids to be honest and ask questions. I'm sorry if he—"

Shaking his head, Sam holds up a hand to stop her from feeling the need to apologize and then kneels down to Steph's level again. "He's just being a Mr. Grumpy-pants today," Sam explains, looking pointedly at Dean as if to say, _See, even kids notice your sour mood._ But in Dean's defense, he also tries to explain away the mood. "Dean's injury is still new to him, so it's a little hard sometimes to be happy even when the people around you are having a good time. I bet you have days like that, sometimes, when you just feel sad and don't know why?"

Steph takes a minute to think about it before finally nodding her head slowly in agreement. "When I feel thad, Mommy and Daddy give me hugth," she says, her eyes brightening as an idea comes to her. Jumping from the bed, she scurries the few feet to where Dean sits in his wheelchair and plunks herself against his body, wrapping her little arms as far as she can reach around his waist.

"Now you're supposed to hug me back," she accuses, backing up and putting her hands on her hips in such a way that the rest of the room can't help but laugh. Everyone, that is, but Dean who seems bewildered and uncertain about the little girl and several shades of pissed off at Sam for letting it happen.

For just a second Sam debates staying out of it, letting Steph give Dean a lesson on manners and being polite. He's certain that she could get a better response in the long run – after all, even a grumpy Dean can't help but back down in the face of a young child. But Sam can see the way Dean's expression has changed from _I'm gonna kill someone, _to _I just need to be left alone_ in an instant and he realizes that there's been a lot to take in over the past couple of days. Putting himself in his brother's place, Sam knows that he would probably be acting the same way if their situations were reversed, and he sure as hell would be looking to Dean to save him.

Finally deciding not to torment Dean with the child at least until he's able to speak on his own, Sam kneels down beside her and adopts his "child" voice again. "Sweetheart, I know Dean loves the hug you just gave him, and I think he would like nothing better than to hug you back, but he can't. How he got hurt…he isn't able to move his arms anymore."

Steph gives an understanding nod. "Kinda like my Daddy at first. He couldn't move much, and he had one of those things." She points to the vent. "But he's getting better. Don't worry, Dean, you will too."

Dean shoots the little girl a look that's a cross between a smirk and a sneer, rolling his eyes before he blinks and goes back to staring at the wall. Sam sees Deans swallow, as though he's trying to gulp down the emotions threatening to expose his vulnerability through his toughened exterior. His heart goes out to his brother, realizing that Dean's attitude is due more to a need for self-preservation than it is truly annoyance or indifference.

Sam slides his body between Dean and everyone else in the room and catches Lanie's gaze. "I think he's probably ready to get back into bed," he says. "Can you…?"

Nodding, Lanie disappears out the door to find an orderly as Melissa takes the hint and begins to gather her children. She kisses Kyle goodbye and scoops Patrick up in her arms. "Steph, we need to get going if we're going to have time to go shopping before the store closes. Say goodbye to your father and his friends."

As children often do, the little girl nods enthusiastically, immediately forgetting her frustration from just seconds earlier. "I'm gonna get a new dreth," she announces proudly. "Bye guys! Bye daddy."

She's out the door before anyone can respond, just about plowing into Lanie and Stu as they return to the room for Dean. Sam catches Lanie's eye, seeks reassurance that she's got things covered with his brother, and then makes a casual excuse to follow Melissa out the door, grabbing the diaper bag from her shoulder as she struggles with her arms full of squirming toddler.

Melissa seems to recognize Sam's need to do more than just be a good Samaritan, calls firmly to Steph to slow down, and then falls into place beside Sam as they wind their way through the halls to the front doors of the facility.

Sam stays quiet for the majority of the walk, but it's clear he's got something on his mind, clear that he's mentally preparing himself to ask a question. And then, when they're almost to the door, be finally blurts it out. "How do you do it?"

"Do what?" Melissa prods, playing dumb in an effort to get Sam to voice things that he might otherwise never say.

More silence follows, nervousness and awkwardness exuding from Sam's pores. They get to the door and he holds it open for Melissa and her kids before he finally manages to speak again.

"When Kyle got hurt, your world must have been completely turned on its axis. And he told me himself that he fought with an abundance of bitterness and caustic reactions. How did you stick by him through all that? How did you not let it get to you?"

Melissa lets out a gentle laugh, a reaction to the irony of the question, but not aimed directly at Sam. They've made it to her SUV by this time, and she opens the back door to let the children climb in as she carefully chooses how she'll answer Sam's question.

"I'm not a saint, Sam. It's not like I just woke up the day after Kyle's accident and decided to put on my happy face and ignore everything else that went on around me. His words hurt, his actions felt like betrayals. I hated him for getting hurt in the first place, for taking the pain out on me, for leaving me and our children to deal with the bills and the emotions and the decisions while he was just lying in a hospital bed doing nothing. And then I hated myself for having those thoughts, because I knew none of this was his fault and I felt absolutely evil for even thinking about blaming him for any of it. I think I spent more time crying in my car than I did driving it. For the longest time I felt like I was all alone in this world, that no one had any clue what I was going through."

Sam finds himself nodding his head in agreement, hearing his own thoughts and fears coming out in Melissa's past. "But you two seem so happy together, so in sync."

"It's taken us a long time to get back to that. Lots of counseling – both together and individually. We've both had to let go of a lot of pent up feelings and emotions. We found people who had gone through the same things and we talked to them and we asked questions. And we're still working on it, Sam. Trust me when I tell you – it's not easy taking care of a loved one who's quadriplegic. You suddenly find yourself in a role that neither one of you ever saw for yourself, you become everything for a person who was once completely independent. And with Dean, you're looking at tasks far and beyond even what I had to do for Kyle. This isn't something that ever comes easily for you, Sam. You're going to have to wake up every single morning and tell yourself that you want to be there for your brother, that you want to do everything in your power to help him. You'll have doubts – everyday, probably. But in the end, all you've got is your love for your brother and the decision that you would rather be in his life however you can be, than be out of it to avoid the pain."

She finishes buckling Patrick into his car seat and closes the door, leans against the car and runs a hand through her hair. "You know you can talk to me whenever you need a friend. Or Kyle – he can give you things from Dean's perspective. Just… just don't give up on him just yet, huh? He'll come around; it's just going to take time. Dealing with this shit – it's not an exact science. There's no timeline for the healing process. You just have to take things one day at a time and hold on to the good moments when you get them – no matter how few and far between they may be. Get me?"

For the first time in a long time Sam feels a sense of relief, that maybe he and Dean aren't going through this alone. He nods in agreement with Melissa's request. "Yeah, I do. You've helped a lot – thanks."

The sentiment is genuine, and so is the hug Sam wraps her up in seconds later, mumbling thanks over and over again so that she really understands just how much her words have meant.

When Sam returns, he finds Kyle gone and Dean asleep in bed, hooked up to another meal of Ensure and fluids. He watches his brother sleep for several minutes, wonders how he can look so peaceful and calm one minute and so tormented the next. It's the tranquility of sleeping Dean that finally reassures Sam that he's doing the right thing, that staying with Dean and making him fight to regain a life for himself is the best thing for both of them. Because it's clear to Sam that the desired outcome is possible, that Dean is capable of accepting his situation, as long as they do it together.


	6. Chapter 6

Sam's resolve strengthens in the wake of Dean's reaction to the pop-off and their subsequent encounters with each other since. As the reality of his brother's situation becomes prominent - the terror of how easily his life can be extinguished, the helplessness of Dean's depression – Sam decides to take solace at the insight of Melissa and Kyle's words, decides to trust them that things will get better if he just perseveres through the worst of it.

He becomes an advocate; the poster child for 'family of an SCI', and manages to drag himself out of bed every morning to spend the whole day with Dean, forces a smile on his face when he would really rather punch someone then curl back up under the covers and never come out again.

But Sam has decided it's up to him – and him alone - to improve Dean's attitude, and the only way to do that is with carefully masked enthusiasm.

It doesn't hurt when Dean's speech therapist, Linda, appears, just before lunch on the sixth day, with Stu and announces her plans to feed Dean real food. Sam watches his brother's face for a reaction, ends up thrilled when Dean's mouth twitches just barely into the beginnings of a smile. It's enough for now, and he happily stands back as Dean is prepped and moved from bed to wheelchair, reclined to a 60 degree angle, and strapped in.

Sam falls into line beside his brother, chattering happily about how thrilled Dean must be about finally getting real, honest to god food, as Linda takes control of the chair and guides it towards the cafeteria. So it's a real shocker when they arrive, pull up to a table, only to discover that the "real" food Sam had expected – hamburgers and fries and pie – turns out to be cups full of mush and disgusting liquids. One glance at Dean and Sam knows his brother is equally disappointed – probably more so.

Linda is no stranger to that reaction. She pinches her lips into an apologetic smile as she lowers herself into the seat across from Dean. "I know it's not what you wanted, but it's a good start – trust me. As soon as you prove you can handle the pureed foods we can move you on to solids."

"Piece of cake," Sam scoffs, looking for a reaction from Dean that never comes. He takes the seat to the other side of his brother, eyes darting nervously between the food and Dean as he pleads internally for this experience to have a positive effect on his brother no matter how disgusting the food is. It's got to be better than the tan glop they've been running through the tube in his stomach.

"So what's the game plan?" Sam finally asks, suspiciously watching Linda prepare the food. He can just barely identify most of it, and that's more unsettling than the actual consistency of the food. Individual cups hold each item separately. One he's certain is applesauce, another some kind of green jello and a third looks like it might be vanilla pudding. But another cup holds some kind of off white colored mush with black specks in it that he can't make out to save his life, and she's got a cup of what is probably apple juice, but she's just added some sort of funny looking powder to it that seems to be making it more into a syrup than a juice.

"Well, I've got several kinds of soft foods here," Linda begins, pointing to each as she names it until finally she identifies the suspicious off-white stuff as mushed banana. "We will try Dean on whichever ones he wants, let him get a taste for chewing again and swallowing, learn the feel of the food moving near the trach. We're monitoring for signs of choking or aspiration – where the food would be going down into his lungs. If all goes well we can start Dean on a soft food diet twice daily and just supplement with the Ensure through the g-tube."

She smiles as she looks at Dean. "Does that sound good, hon? Maybe we can get rid of that thing once and for all."

Dean just rolls his eyes, fails to bring a smile to his face, and Sam frowns at him.

"You could at least pretend to be excited, Dean. Master this and I'll sneak you in some good stuff before you know it. Just think – hamburgers and French fries, maybe a steak…"

"Don't be sneaking food in here and feeding him when no one is around to watch," Linda interrupts, clearly horrified at the idea. "You go giving him something too big to swallow and he could choke. It could make for a huge set back, understand?"

Sam raises his hands in mock surrender, letting out a giant huff of air. _Uptight much? _ "I'm not going to do anything that will endanger my brother," he assures her, pushing the sincerity despite his desire to laugh at her anxiety. It's what he and Dean have always done, joking about hospital food and promising better stuff to come. But he means what he says about not putting Dean in danger, and right now – this situation – Sam pretty much feels like a fish floundering on dry land. He's got no idea how to deal with the intensity of Dean's care, and he is more than ready to accept any and all help the professionals want to provide.

"I'm sorry," he adds. "I just thought he needed a little something to look forward to in the future… a loooong way into the future."

Linda nods, accepts the apology, and immediately goes back to the food like the conversation had never happened. She picks up the juice she's just turned into syrup and places a straw into it, holding it up to Dean's mouth as he eyes her suspiciously, lips tight.

"It's apple juice, Dean. Just thickened so it will go down easier. You won't even notice a difference in the taste. Promise."

Biting on his lower lip, Dean mulls over his options but eventually accepts the straw and takes his first sip. Sam watches in eager anticipation, and realizes several seconds later that Dean is just holding the liquid in his mouth.

"Swallow, Dean. Give it a try," Linda coaxes, clearly realizing the same thing. "Nice and slow, you'll be fine."

Sam hadn't even considered the idea that eating again might be a scary prospect for Dean. But as he thinks about the conversation, even just in the past two minutes, he hears all the unanswered questions and concerns that this could pose. Choking and aspirating… dying. At least it reinforces Sam's conviction that last night's episode hadn't been well thought out – despite what Dean might be trying to convince himself, inherently Dean doesn't want to die.

Dean finally swallows. It's a hard gulp that looks like it hurts, but Linda looks pleased by the effort.

"Great job, Dean!" she exclaims, as though he's just discovered the meaning of life or figured out the answer to cold fusion. "No choking, doesn't sound like there was any aspiration. That's good – do you want some more?"

Dean blinks 'yes' and opens his mouth for the straw. He closes his eyes as he slowly sips more, as though relishing the taste, and Sam realizes it's now been close to a month since Dean has tasted anything other than ice chips and toothpaste on his tongue.

"It's good to get some flavor again, huh?" Sam says when Dean finally opens his eyes and releases the straw again.

Dean scrunches up his face, rolls his eyes at Sam's lame comment. But Sam isn't one to be deterred easily. If he squints he can see past Dean's façade to the scared little boy who is just happy to feel anything – to taste anything.

"Yeah, I know. You're mister tough guy, and apple juice is for sissies. When you get out of here we'll get you some beer, how's that?" Sam holds his breath for another outburst from Linda, but apparently he's worded this statement well enough that she doesn't see a reason to reprimand him.

'Yeah,' Dean mouths, actually sort of smiling at that one. 'Beer is good.'

"Alright, Dean, are you ready to try some food?" Linda asks. She's got the spoon hovering over the tray as she waits for him to blink a 'yes' response, then studies him thoughtfully for a minute before selecting the pudding.

"You look like a guy who appreciates a little sugar. Vanilla pudding a good start?"

Dean blinks again then opens his mouth just enough to accept the spoonful. Linda scrapes the last of it against his teeth then pulls the spoon out and she and Sam wait eagerly as Dean moves it around his tongue then swallows.

Everything seems to go down the way it's supposed to, and Dean's meager grin grows just a touch bigger.

Sam beams. "Better than the hospital stuff?"

He knows the answer to that one even before Dean can give a response. They've both spent enough time choking down hospital food to know when it's not fit even for pigs. So he's not surprised when Dean blinks yes with strong conviction. Sam can't hide the smile that creeps onto his face, thrilled that Dean is not only responding, but that he actually seems to be enjoying the situation just a little. It's a first for them in a while, and Sam watches Dean happily for a few minutes longer before his attention begins to wander.

Being lunchtime, the room is beginning to fill with patients and families. Sam's natural observation instincts kick in as he searches the room, takes in the state of the many other patients milling around. A pang of jealousy stabs him in the gut as he realizes that Dean is by far one of the worst affected patients at the place. Save for maybe the traumatic brain injury patients, Sam can't really find anyone worse off than his brother. And even most of the TBI's are moving and breathing on their own. He knows, without a doubt, that he would rather see Dean how he is now than drooling and moaning and out of it like the guy two tables over from them. But otherwise, he's ashamed to admit that he would take just about any other complication in the room over Dean's injury.

It doesn't seem fair that so many of the SCI patients seem to be improving. Just in the past week they've been here Sam has witnessed a patient get rid of her ventilator, another making strides on hand control, and a third get up and start walking with the assistance of parallel bars. But it's not that long ago that Sam finally accepted the fact that Dean will never achieve any of those milestones. He'll be doing well to talk again, and learn to steer his own wheelchair. It will be a day to cheer when he can hold his head up without a neck brace.

Sam returns to the task at hand, realizing sadly that they've accomplished a milestone just by the fact that Dean is eating. This time his smile is forced when he watches Dean devour the jello, sucking it down so fast Linda has to caution him to ease up a bit. It's hard to believe they're lives have come to this now, nearly impossible to accept that just two months ago they were chasing down a Chupacabra through acres and acres of farmland in Indiana and now Dean can't even sit up on his own.

Taking a deep breath, Sam reminds himself that he can't be thinking this way, needs to be finding the positives, helping Dean to accept his situation. His resolve becomes stronger, the smile along with it.

And that's when Dean's blood pressure plummets.

It all happens so fast Sam hardly has time to register what's going on. One minute Dean is happy as a clam, sucking on his jello. The next, his head and neck turn a bright tomato red as a sweat breaks out across his forehead and his eyes start to roll around in their sockets. A hint of panic crosses Dean's face and Linda rolls into motion, calling for help as she lowers the chair to a more reclining position.

An aide and a doctor, neither of them Dean's regulars, show up at his side almost immediately. Among the three of them, they work to keep Dean alert and cognizant of his surroundings as vitals are checked and possible causes of the dysreflexia are sought out. And through it all, Sam can only stand in shell shocked silence, staring disbelievingly at the frenzy in front of him as he thinks, _this can't be happening. When does it end? When does he get a break?_

This bout doesn't end quickly, the cause refusing to make itself known readily, and before he knows it Sam is chasing the group down the hall and back to Dean's room where they work double time to transfer him back into bed. Medications are administered through the port in Dean's arm, and within seconds he's calm again, although lucidity seems to be a thing of the past.

It takes another ten minutes to finally discover the cause is a catheter blockage, and several more as staff works to remove the old tubing and replace it with fresh while Sam watches with a mixture of curiosity and horror. For all the procedures he's been around to witness, this is a first for any of the indepth bathroom functions, and he has to admit it's frighteningly disheartening to see the most important part of Dean's anatomy, the one that once defined him, so limp and unresponsive. For some reason, to that point, Sam had still held out hope that Dean might still have that, might be able to maintain appearances in front of the ladies. Clearly, though, that won't be the case. Sam's heart breaks for his brother, and fleetingly he wonders if it is unfair of him to _expect_ Dean to live when so much of what he has to live for is now unreachable. So far, it seems that for every single step forward in Dean's recovery, there is at least two backward to ruin the mood. And it's hard to feel optimistic in the wake of such fleeting hope.

But then the doctors and nurses finish up with Dean and encourage him to come sit with his brother, and Sam finds that he wants nothing more, that he can't think of a single thing he would rather be doing than sitting at Dean's side as he fights back to consciousness. Sam reminds himself of what Kyle and Melissa had said, that it takes time but he'll come around. And he really doesn't care if it's selfish or not, he just wants to see the day when Dean is himself again. And as he's done so often in the last few weeks, he vows to see Dean through to the end.

SUPERNATURAL

During the entire first week, Sam can't bear to look at the empty cork board on the wall in front of Dean's bed. Next to its cheerful counterpart – this Kyle guy seems to a have a trizillion friends and a family with a total head count that equals the population of a small nation, maybe Luxembourg or something – it feels like an accusation, a constant reminder that Sam is Dean's everything now, and he's failing him, leaving him behind every evening, alone in the emptiness.

That first week Sam's guilt almost kills him.

Every evening, Milla comes to pick him up and spends around half an hour to make sure that Dean is well looked after. She is every inch a figure of authority, years of experience and a flawless reputation backing her up, but Sam knows her tells by now. Hands trembling worse than ever, she never touches anything that is connected to the machinery but mercilessly quizzes nurses and therapists instead, who soon learn to avoid her.

They are both around for Dean's dinner, and now that Dean is able to eat again Sam insists on feeding him as Linda watches and throws out praise and suggestions and cheerful enthusiasm that must surely have Dean wanting to slaughter the woman because he knows he sure as hell does.

All his attention focused on the task and the spoon in his hand, it is so much easier to ignore the murderous look in his brother's eyes. After the awkwardness of dinner is finally over, Dean gets a last pat on the head and they abandon him again for the night, and that might as well be forever. The fact that this Kyle guy is around all day to keep Dean company isn't any consolation at all. A short drive that Sam can never remember later, Milla and him are back at her perfect little house and have some late dinner, in silence and not together. Sam can carry a grudge for a really long time, especially if it's completely unreasonable.

He lies awake at night, thinking of Dean. How his brother is alone right now – this Kyle guy doesn't count, neither do the nurses – how he has nothing to remind him of ... And at this point he has to stop himself, because he was about to think _home_ and they haven't had a home in a long, long time. Sam desperately wants to call someone, Bobby or Ellen or oh, who is he kidding... Sam wants his father, wants a gruff voice telling him what to do without the mere option of doubt. At this point, he would do anything and obey without a question, just a sharp "Yes, Sir" and a straight back, if it meant to have that responsibility, that guilt, that loneliness lifted off his shoulders. For so long, his home was Dean babbling in the car with those stupid cassettes blaring guitars in the background when all Sam wanted to do was listen to some Jack Johnson and maybe sleep a little. Now, he'd sell his soul to have that back.

More than 35 days have passed since he has last heard Dean's voice.

It actually takes Sam a whole week to figure out the first solution to one of his problems. Wasn't he supposed to be the smart one? On Sunday morning Sam strolls into the room with a rolled up poster under his arm. Dean's still in bed, and Sam greets him with a casual head rub. All he gets in return is a slightly annoyed eye roll. Of course, Sam doesn't need words to understand what his brother wants to know.

"Just wait and see", he says and walks up to the cork board, the currently most-annoying-thing-he-can-potentially-do-something-about in his life. He unrolls the poster and pins it to the board, making sure that his back is blocking Dean's view in the process. When he's finished and steps back with the "Ta-dah" motion of a magician's assistant, Dean's eyes go wide.

It's a Led Zeppelin poster, arguably their most famous one. A pitch black background, the band name in large red letters towering over the hermit with the lamp to the right and a quote from "Stairway to Heaven" to the left. It doesn't cover even half of the board, but it's definitely better than nothing, Sam thinks. Dean is biting his bottom lip again, his face an otherwise carefully blank mask.

Sam can't wait for that damn speaking valve.

"Well?" he prompts. "What do you think? Do you like it?"

Dean blinks once, hesitant, with a questioning look on his face that asks _what's it for?_

Glancing at Kyle's board and then immediately away, Sam shrugs. "I thought maybe you would like something familiar to look at. I'll look around and see what else I can scrounge up, too."

They don't have all that many pictures to begin with, let alone anything Dean might actually want posted on his board. And not for the first time does Sam resent Dean's roommate for having so many photos of _before. _Despite his determination to _not_ look at Kyle's board, Sam finds himself strangely drawn to it, studying the photographs more closely and fighting his own regrets off in the meantime.

In one corner of the board is a professionally shot photo of Kyle and his co-workers from the fire company, all in their dress blues and hats as they stand lined up in the rest position. Right next to that is the same group of guys in jeans and t-shirts, goofing off and grinning from ear to ear. A ways below it is one of Kyle and Melissa on their wedding day, another of the whole family on Christmas morning, and yet another a professional shot of the two kids.

There are more photos, lots more, and the one thing that Sam notices about all of them is how happy and uninhibited and carefree everyone seems to be in those photos. Sam can count on one hand the number of photos he and Dean have taken like that, and most of them are on his cell phone…never developed. And most have been taken under the guise of blackmail, the victim asleep with straws sticking out of nose and ears.

He can't remember the last time they got a photo of the two of them together, thinks it was probably before Sam left for college which makes it well over six years. It makes Sam sad to think that more photos have been taken of them in the last month than were taken in a whole lifetime – and that's not saying much.

As if on cue, Chelsea enters the room on rounds. She stops when she sees the poster, a grin forming on her mouth. "Hey! You guys are finally starting to use the corkboard, that's great! Hold on a sec, I think we've got something down at the nurses station for you to add to it."

She leaves before Sam can get a word out, comes scurrying back in less than a minute later with a small photograph printed out with an inkjet printer and holds it out so both boys can see it. It's one of the two of them that Sam hadn't even realized had been taken. Dean is strapped into a wheelchair, surrounded by several staff members in the middle of an examination, Sam standing off to the back out of the way, and Sam realizes it was taken on the day of Dean's second team meeting, when plans were formulated all around for his care and goals.

"Here, we can post it up on the board, right next to your poster. Is that Zeppelin? My brother's a big fan – I'm guessing you are, too?" She looks over to Dean, laying so still in his bed, and waits for his assertion before going on. "I don't know much about the music myself; I've always been more a fan of country music. Craig – that's my brother – he can't really stand most of the music I listen too, always says it's too depressing and once you've heard one country romance turned bad you've heard 'em all. Lucky for him, he lives halfway across the country, so he doesn't have to listen to my music and I don't have to listen to his. Works pretty well, I guess."

Sam's head is spinning, and he's certain Dean isn't faring much better. The petite nurse seems to have had about 5 cups too much coffee this morning. "Sounds like your brother and Dean would get along great," Sam finally says, unsure of where else to take the conversation.

"I'm sure they would," Chelsea agrees, then turns to Dean, hands on hips as she studies him and changes the topic. "You, sir, are in dire need of a good bath. You're hair's getting awfully greasy."

Dean scrunches up his face in a grimace. He hates feeling so grungy and disgusting, but he also hates the baths – mostly because he can't feel them, but also because the hair washing is nothing more than a rinseless powder shampoo that really doesn't do much beyond changing his greasy locks into stiff formless clumps.

He finally concedes to the care, figuring he doesn't have much choice in the matter anyway, and Chelsea happily prances from the room to gather supplies. When she returns, Sam has settled himself into the chair in the far corner with a magazine, back turned so that he's not intruding on Dean's privacy, but still nearby if he's needed. He tries to ignore most of what's going on, tries to keep his nose buried in the book, but he can't ignore the casual conversation Chelsea continues to make as she surreptitiously cleans Dean from head to toe. Sam finally can't help but look up, just to get a feel for what's going on. What he sees surprises him – because in the past Dean has always had a glazed look to his eyes whenever he's being manhandled by the nurses, always seems to be somewhere else. But this time he's actually focusing, his eyes locked on the poster Sam's just put up, and his lips are moving. And although Sam can't hear a word they're saying, instinctually he just knows Dean is singing. A smile comes to his lips as Sam realizes the poster is already making a difference. Which means that, maybe, he's making a difference too.

SUPERNATURAL

Day ten at rehab marks the return of Dean's voice. It seems rather ridiculous to be so excited about being able to talk again, especially when he remembers – once more – the reasons why he's got to learn all over again in the first place. He doesn't want to have to be thrilled about speaking again, doesn't want to be in the situation where something so ingrained and normal has become an obstacle in his path. But such is his life these days, and at least speaking again means voicing his displeasures and telling Sam how much he doesn't want to be living this life. Having a voice will certainly garner him some benefits once again.

A whole crowd has gathered in his room this time, staring and waiting expectantly for Dean's first words. A respiratory therapist has come to keep an eye on his oxygen levels, Chelsea to monitor the rest of his vitals, Linda for the actual speech valve. And then there's Sam and Kyle and Milla off in a corner looking for all the world like a little lost puppy, and some new intern or student or something that is just there to 'observe and take notes.'

This time Linda lets Dean stay in bed, explaining that he stands a better chance at success if he's comfortable and relaxed. Dean can't help but scowl at that, though, because comfortable and relaxed are two adjectives that haven't described him since before the kidnapping. And whether he's in bed, in the wheelchair, or standing on his head for that matter, he doesn't figure it's likely to get much better in the foreseeable future.

But Dean forces himself not to overreact because Sam seems so anxious for everything to go as planned. He waits patiently as the respiratory therapist suctions his trach and deflates the cuff inside, then vaguely listens as Linda takes over, explaining as she attaches the passey-muir valve to his equipment until he finally feels a whoosh of air make its way through his nose and mouth. He immediately coughs weakly, not having expected the sensation to feel so foreign to him. It's been over a month since he's felt air in those areas.

"Feels weird, doesn't it?" Linda says gently as she sits on the edge of the bed . Looking over her shoulder at the others in the room, at Sam, his arms crossed, legs spread, and standing all anxious at the foot of Dean's bed, she explains the newness of the sensation. "He'll get used to it eventually," she adds, "it just takes time to readjust to air flowing over the vocal folds rather than going straight out the throat. Before we know it, Dean'll be talking your ear off again."

She turns back, focuses her attention on Dean. "The machine is still breathing for you, but now most of the exhale is going out your mouth and nose instead of back through the hosing. For now we've got it set to 32 breaths per minute, so the rate at which you will be able to talk will be limited. When we know for sure you can tolerate that level we'll start decreasing the number of breaths per minute so you can say longer sentences. With me so far?"

Dean blinks his standard 'yes,' trying not to look too frustrated by the medical speak. He could honestly care less how many breaths per minute he's set to, or how the valve works. As long as someone else has to do the work for him anyway, he'd just rather let them worry about the specifics.

"Good." Linda beams, and inches herself closer to Dean on the bed. "Alright, so this is all about timing. You're going to talk on the exhales, when you feel the air start to flow through your vocal passages. You should probably be good for about two to three syllables at the volume you're at now. Ready to give it a try?"

The funny thing is that Dean's just spent a month and a half desperate to be heard, desperate to vocalize his displeasure and his wishes and his feelings. And now, when he's finally given the opportunity to say something he can't think of a damn thing to say! His eyes dart frantically around the room, seeking out some form of inspiration. A question to ask, something to criticize. He loses several opportunities before he falls back on the old, tried and true.

"Sammy…" The word comes out forced, whispered, nothing at all like the strong voice he's used to emoting across a room. Dean winces at the sound. But across the bed Sam is beaming, eyes lit up like a Douglas fir on Christmas morning.

"Hey, Dean," Sam sighs, runs a hand shakily through his unruly hair. "Man, it's good to hear your voice again. You've got no idea."

Dean grins back, for the moment unable to resist Sam's goofy, dimpled smile. He doesn't let it go at that, though, pulling from his far reaching stock of big-brother protection. "You need some ---" his air supply is cut off, straining the last syllable, and Dean has to sit frustratedly by as another breath is delivered into his lungs before he gets the opportunity to finish the thought. "Food. Too thi—"

Sam laughs, understanding immediately what Dean is trying to say and fully appreciating its meaning. "Too thin, huh? Have you looked in a mirror lately, bro? I think you're giving me a run for my money."

"Not my faul---" he starts, frustrated when he finds he's got to say the last word again. This 32 breaths a minute thing is ridiculous, he thinks, despite the dizziness that already seems to be accompanying the lowered levels of inspiration from what he's been used too. But they've got a conversation going; real, brotherly banter that Dean isn't about to give up for anything in the world. He begins again as the next whoosh of air comes up through his vocal cords, doesn't give up until the full statement is out.

"Fault they're fee--- feeding me--- slop," he states, looking pointedly at Linda as he does so. "Shit's not fit--- for a pig. ---I'd be fat--- and happy--- if they'd just--- give me steaks--- like I want."

This time everyone laughs, particularly Linda who has been working with the dietician on Dean's special diet. "Guess that's my fault, huh?"

"Your menu," Dean accuses when the air flow returns.

Linda sighs good naturedly. "I can't get you steaks just yet, but I'll see if we can work on some hamburger or something. Can you live with that?"

"Could be worse." Switching back to his original line of thought, Dean looks at Milla, his eyes locking hard on hers. "He needs to e--- eat. I'm count--- ing on you."

The woman smiles nervously, glancing between Dean and Sam. It's clear she's still unsure of her place, clear there is still a line drawn between her and Sam and that makes her uncertain of where she stands with Dean.

"I've been trying to get him to eat," Milla answers, although she says it to Sam, avoiding looking at Dean. In retrospect, Dean realizes she hasn't directly spoken to him since the hospital. With the tension between her and Sam Dean would have expected she would be more inclined to talk to him and avoid Sam, but instead she has been talking to Dean _through_ Sam, almost as though she's afraid to talk directly to Dean. As though Sam has _forbidden_ her to directly address Dean.

The revelation comes on like a lightbulb and his emotions immediately war between anger and gratitude. Sam is trying to protect him – and he appreciates the sentiment, but he's protecting him from the wrong person.

"Milla you can--- talk to me."

Her eyes jump quickly to Dean and then immediately drop back down, focusing on her shaking hands as she mumbles a barely perceptible response. "Just trying to keep things peaceful."

"Peaceful how?" Dean asks, struggling to discern her statement as Sam backs away sheepishly. Milla shakes her head, lips pursed tightly. Suddenly Dean becomes aware of the audience they've got, realizes that whatever is going on between Sam and Milla is bigger than he'd realized and it's about to play out here in front of his roommate and several members of the hospital staff. He's gone from having no voice to playing peacemaker in the course of ten minutes and, quite frankly, he's not in the mood.

But there isn't much else that can be done, either, so Dean looks pointedly to the attending group. "Can we have--- a minute?"

Linda seems hesitant, respiratory even more so, but a quick glance at the monitors show that Dean is stable with the current vent settings and they grudgingly consent to leave for a few minutes, shooing Kyle out with them despite his protests that it's his room and he should be allowed to stay.

When the door is closed, Dean looks back from Sam to Milla, mustering his sternest glare and lamenting just how hard it is to be scary when you're lying motionless in bed with a bunch of tubes trailing out of your body. "Wanna tell me--- what's going on?"

"It's nothing you need to worry about, Dean," Sam objects. "I'm handling it. You need to focus on getting out of here."

"Not happening--- for awhile--- Tell me."

"Sam's just finding it difficult to trust me still," Milla volunteers quickly, before she loses her nerve.

"Milla," Sam hisses warningly. His eyes grow wide as the older woman shrinks back to the wall.

"Sam," Dean says, trying to sound just as threatening as Sam is to Milla, and failing for the most part. "You need to--- let this go. You--- have to for--- give her."

"Why, Dean? Why do I have to forgive her? Have you looked at yourself? Do you know what she did to you?" Agitation has Sam pacing the room already, arms flailing wildly the way they always do when Sam gets emotional about something.

Dean closes his eyes, takes a moment to wish this wasn't happening. He'd expected some major emotion on this day, had anticipated that finally being able to speak again would stir up conversation topics that he didn't want to be a part of. But playing shrink between his brother and the woman who had paralyzed him was the furthest thing from his expectations. Dean hadn't prepared for this.

Looking between the two of them, Dean can feel his anxiety amp up. Milla looks so lost, so dejected and hopeless, and despite everything his heart goes out to her. One thing Dean has always been able to do is see the clear line between good and evil, victim and aggressor. Where Sam sometimes seems to see in shades of grey, Dean's colors are sharp black and white. So yeah, he's pissed at the situation, desperately wants someone to hate, to take his emotions out on. And unfortunately Sam has already take the brunt of a lot of Dean's anger. But he knows Milla is a victim, and he needs Sam to see that too. Because Dean needs to lean on Sam right now, and he can't shoulder Sam's emotional load so that means Sam needs someone else to talk to. And Milla seems the best option right now.

Furrowing his brow, Dean glares at Sam and answers his question in the best way he can. "I know what _Adam---_ did to me," he says softly. "I know what--- Lori Ann did. ---and I know--- what they did--- to Milla. But--- she's a vic--- tim, Sam. You can't---blame her for--- something she--- had no control--- over." _Damn, it would be so much easier if I could finish a whole sentence without the damn interruptions of forced air._

Sam throws his hands up, frustration evident in his features. It looks almost as though he wants to reach out and throttle Dean, strangle him or something. If the situation weren't so serious Dean might have wanted to laugh. But as it stands now, he just wants to scream.

"I don't understand how you can be so forgiving of this! Your life as you knew it is over. You're relying on a ventilator to keep you alive, for god's sakes. You can't say more than three words without a huge break in the middle. And you're just okay with this? With her? How can you be ok with everything?"

A few tears leak out of the corners of Dean's eyes, trail down his cheeks to his lips, and Dean blinks furiously before more fall. The words sting. _How can Sam know so little about me? _ Of course he's not okay with everything – not even close. But it's not Milla that he's having a hard time with right now; it's Sam.

"You of all--- people should--- know what it's--- like to be a--- victim," Dean says, referring to Sam's history of possession, not once, but twice.

Sam at least has the grace to look humbled by that comment, and he stops pacing the room. "That's different, Dean."

"How? You pulled--- a gun on--- me both times. ---Actually hit--- me the second time."

"Yeah, but you healed. You got better. And I still haven't forgiven myself for that."

"You weren't in--- control, Sam. ---And neither was--- Milla. You know--- what it's like."

"I just can't—" Sam stops himself mid-sentence and finally takes a minute to look at Milla, hunched nervously in the corner of the room trying to make herself appear much smaller than she actually is. Cocking his head, Sam seems to be taking her in, reevaluating, and Dean allows himself to feel hopeful at the sight.

"She's a victim," Dean says once more, feeling the need for that final push to get Sam moving in the right direction.

"So are you," Sam says, but now it's only half-hearted as he allows himself to truly hear Dean's words. "I need time to think, Dean. I can't talk about this anymore."

As much as he would like to get to the end of this, Dean is tired too, and he can't find it in himself to be particularly disappointed when Sam brings the conversation to an end. He throws and encouraging smile towards Milla and goes silent, realizing for the first time just how lightheaded he's feeling. Talking has really taken it out of him.

It's Milla, not Sam, that notices the change in Dean's pallor, and the doctor in her takes over. "I think maybe you should get his therapists back in here," she says, her voice the firmest it has ever been towards Sam. Dean sees the argument in his brother's eyes, expects him to protest out of sheer spite. But when it comes to each other, both boys can put their feelings aside and Sam does just that, pursing his lips and making a stiff line to the door as Milla shuffles forward towards Dean.

"Are you feeling alright? You're looking a little pale."

"Kinda dizzy," Dean admits, closing his eyes as the room seems to spin around him. "Just came on."

"I think you aren't getting enough oxygen. You've spent an awful lot of time speaking for someone who isn't used to the change in air distribution. Hang on just a minute, they'll come fix it."

"Don't want to--- lose my voice," he says pitifully, the realization of the situation slamming full force into his awareness. It had been bad enough with no means of communication all those weeks, but now that he's tasted independence he can't bear the thought of letting go.

"They have to start you slow, Dean. I promise you'll get more used to the change in air flow. You can keep the speaking valve in for longer periods of time the more you work with it. But for now it's in your best interest to let them take it out."

The argument has left him, and Dean mouths 'ok,' without even bothering to utilize the air necessary to voice it. But as Sam returns to the room, the therapists hot on his heels, Dean sees the raw emotion filtering through his brother's body and he can't let this argument be the last thing on Sam's mind before Dean is silenced once again. He looks frantically around the room, searching for a light-hearted topic, and his eyes land on the cork board across the room. He smiles at the poster Sam had put up there, pleased that his brother knows him so well. But there's still plenty of room for more, and Dean knows just the thing to turn the day around.

"Sam," Dean calls out as Linda approaches the bed. Her hands hover over his throat, waiting patiently as Dean says his peace.

When he has his brother's attention, Dean looks pointedly at the board and grins goofily. "Poster's great," he says, then automatically stops while he waits for more air. "Now, need some--- naked girls."

Sam's emo frown immediately draws into a grin, laughter lighting up his eyes. Linda and the respiratory therapist shake their heads in mock disgust, but amusement is hidden beneath the surface as Linda makes a point to tell Dean he's silenced as she removes the speaking valve and Dean's air flow is returned to what it had been previously.

They pull out the suction hose again, but this time Dean barely notices because Sam is smiling. And that's a rare thing these days – for either of them.

"I'll see what I can do," Sam agrees, heartily. He waits for the therapists to finish up and then scoots closer to the head of Dean's bed, placing his fingers on the limp spikes of hair just beyond Dean's forehead. "I'll bring you something tomorrow, Dean. You did great today…I'm proud of you."

What he doesn't say is "thanks for the advice" and "I'll try to be nicer to Milla" and "sorry for angsting out on you," but the message is implied in Sam's hesitation before he whispers good-bye and reluctantly follows his ride out the door.

SUPERNATURAL

Maybe the first thing that truly turns Sam around on Milla, starts to make him realize that she is serious about making amends and helping them through this debilitating injury, is when she wakes him up and tells him that a contractor will be coming by that day to assess the house for renovations. It's a drastic step, one Sam hadn't even considered up to this point, and it means a lot that she is so willing to physically restructure her house so that Dean has a place he can move around in. It means they will be staying for a while – indefinitely – and Sam realizes then and there that Dean is right. He's got to move past his issues with her and begin to embrace her as the mother figure they've never had before.

For the first time since they met Sam produces a genuine smile for the woman, accepts her help as more than just a means to an end. And then he jumps right into the meat of the issue; establishing the necessary changes.

The contractor comes at 11:00, and Sam has already been through every room in the house multiple times by the time the doorbell rings. Milla opens the door to reveal a giant of a man; head shaved, tattoos adorning every inch of his exposed skin, muscle upon muscle bulging through the armholes of the white wifebeater he wears. Sam actually feels small next to him, garners a sense of intimidation that he's not used to experiencing. But he begins to feel more at ease when the man sticks out a calloused, meaty hand to him and heartily introduces himself as Dave Reddick of Reddick Brothers Contracting, voice pleasant and relaxed and strongly southern, not at all sounding as though it goes with the rest of the body.

Milla leads the group into the kitchen and has Sam and Dave sit at the table while she pours coffee and Sam fills the man in on the circumstances surrounding the renovation. "My brother, Dean, was injured a few months ago. He's…quadriplegic, and he'll be leaving the hospital in a wheelchair," Sam says quietly, almost choking on the words as he says them. He's not used to voicing it out loud, not used to admitting to strangers that Dean is less than perfect anymore. And it doesn't help when the guy's entire demeanor shifts, pity and empathy emoting from his now slouched frame and saddened eyes.

"I'm sorry to hear about your brother," Dave says, with genuine sincerity. He glances at Milla and offers her a grim smile, lips pursed. "It's never easy when your children get hurt. My sister's boy has got some problems, and I know it's very difficult for them, too."

"Oh," Milla says, clasping her shaky hands together as she looks between Sam and Dave in surprise. "Dean and Sam aren't my children. They're just…well I—"

Sam jumps in to rescue the nervous woman. "She's just a good friend. Both of our parents have passed on and Milla was kind enough to take us in when Dean got hurt." The hesitant smile that Sam flashes her says he's ready to forgive and Milla visibly relaxes, gratitude written all over her face.

"That's amazingly kind of you," Dave says. "Not a lot of people would be that generous." He jumps topic, pulling out his clipboard and a pen and preparing himself to write. "Now, what kind of changes are we looking at here?"

Sam has a lot of it written down, much of the specifications taken from pamphlets that Dean's Occupational Therapist had provided them several weeks earlier. He slides everything he's got over to Dave and starts to speak, falling comfortably into the discussion as he would research for a hunt. Every room on the first floor will be affected by the renovations. They have decided not to worry about the second floor, but Milla has insisted that they do work on the basement level since there is access from the back of the house. Every doorway will need to enlarged, doors will be replaced, and the plush carpet in the bedroom and dining room will be removed and replaced with hardwood floors like the rest of the house.

After establishing the general specifications Sam leads the way outside to provide specifics, feeling a little out of place directing renovations on someone else's house. But multiple glances at Milla show her nodding in agreement at every request and suggestion he's got, a hint of a smile on her face and probably the most comfortable stance she's had since they met, and it quickly puts Sam at ease. In a way it's like cleansing a house of a poltergeist, knowing exactly where things must go and what needs to go there in order for the final product to be a success. He convinces himself of this, tries to push out of his mind the fact that these changes are permanent, like Dean's injury.

Sam has been living in Milla's house for over a month, but it's not until he starts making changes to it that he truly appreciates the architecture and beauty of the property. Standing outside in the driveway, the three look up at the ornate, Corinthian columns that hold up the roof of a porch that extends all the way across the front of the red brick house and wraps around to the breakfast nook on one side. Five steep steps descend from the front door and meet up with a short walkway before wrapping around to the drive. A plush lawn extends a good 20 feet before meeting up with the sidewalk beside the road. There is more lawn to the side and around back of the house, which sits on an entire acre of land in total. A quick discussion in logistics has Dave suggesting taking out the right side of the porch rail and building a longer shallower ramp to meet up with the edge of the driveway instead of building the ramp beside the stairs in the front. It will allow Dean a more direct route from porch to drive and eliminate several turns in the long run. Milla seems pleased with this suggestion, and comments on the fact that it will also preserve the face of the house – something which Sam could care less about. He doesn't care if the entire house looks like something out of a sci-fi movie just as long as Dean is comfortable. But he keeps that thought to himself as he leads them around to the back of the house and the basement entrance.

A concrete path will be poured over the grass from front drive way to the back garage, and to Sam's surprise Milla suggests heating it underneath for the winter, to keep the ice off. Inside the finished basement is a large room that is virtually empty except for some boxes stacked alongside one wall, and Sam has already confirmed that this can become an equipment room for Dean's therapy. Not much needs to be done to the space other than the obligatory widening of entrances, so they move on to a discussion of some type of lift to get from the that level to the first floor. The contractor suggests knocking out a portion of one wall, building the lift space as a bump-out on one side of the house, and everyone nods eagerly at the idea.

Sam finds himself relaxing as they climb the stairs to the first floor, just having this one weight lifted off of him that he didn't even know existed. The major work will be done here, but he feels confident that Dave and his team will be able to pull everything off without a hitch.

Milla has insisted that Dean get her bedroom, and since it's the only one on the main floor Sam didn't put up much of an argument. They talk about installing more outlets for the equipment, revamping the shower in the master bathroom so that a wheelchair can just roll in, installing a Hoyer lift that runs on a track from bedroom to bathroom. There is talk of lowering cabinets and raising counter space, until Milla gently reminds Sam that Dean won't be able to access them anyway, no matter where they're positioned, and for the first time that day Sam has to swallow down a lump in his throat as he nods in reluctant agreement with her assessment.

He stops at that, scanning the house and thoroughly ingesting everything they've just discussed, not just the technical factors, but the emotional ones, and actually realizing what it all means. So far, Sam has managed to get through the process by convincing himself that is was _just_ a renovation, but suddenly the repercussions of why they're changing so much hits him hard and fast, knocking the wind out of him. They're not just widening doorways, they're widening doorways so that Dean's wheelchair can fit through them. And they're not just adding outlets, the outlets are being added to keep a life-sustaining ventilator running and a wheelchair battery charged and operating. The ramps are being added for access – access to places that Dean will otherwise never be able to get to. It's a lot to think about, too much to process, and Sam suddenly finds himself running for the bathroom, stomach tied in knots.

Dave leaves soon after that, promising a quote for all of the work by the end of the next day, and Milla collects a shaky Sam and pulls him through the house to the living room. She sits him down with a firm, but gentle order, and Sam complies without thought, limbs loose and pliant. She has realized the overwhelming emotion that the renovation discussion has finally caused, and she gives him a minute or two to just sit in silence before broaching another uncomfortable conversation.

"I know you don't want to think about this Sam, but we need to be ordering furniture and equipment for Dean, too. The house will need more than just structural renovations."

Sam shakes his head firmly. I can't think about that right now."

"He will be home before you know it," Milla presses. "And some of this stuff needs to be special ordered."

"I said not now, Milla," Sam snaps.

"Then when?"

Shoulders drooped, body visibly shaking, Sam draws back into the safety of the couch. For several moments there is no answer, and when he does start speaking it isn't in reply to the woman's question. "Do you know that my brother has taken a bullet for me? Not once even, but twice."

Milla shakes her head slowly, eyes wide and curious as to where this is going.

"And there are monsters out there, supernatural creatures with no regard for human life. He's put himself between them and me more times that I can count, been on the brink of death because he was protecting me…it seems like hundreds of times. Our whole lives, Dean has always protected me."

"He loves you, Sam. It's a natural thing to want to protect your family."

"Yeah, but Dean has always gone above and beyond the call of duty…half the time I don't even think he's conscious of doing it, it's just ingrained in him…"

He shifts on the couch, planting his feet several inches apart and leaning forward, elbows resting on knees and chin sitting atop his closed fists.

"Our dad didn't raise kids…he raised soldiers," Sam admits, spits it out like it leaves a bitter taste on his tongue. "He raised us to fight to the end, never give up, leave no one behind. Dean always took it a step further, my life was always more precious to him than his own. That's why he did what he did in the schoolhouse. That's why he ended up like he is. And it's my fault – I should have seen Lori Ann for who she was way back in the beginning. If I'd known who she was I could have stopped her, I could have stopped this whole thing from happening."

"But Sam, you couldn't have known," Milla protests. She leans forward in her own chair and reaches a hand out to Sam, stopping just before she reaches his knee, unsure if the gesture will be welcomed. Her hand hovers in the air as Sam continues, misery etched in his voice.

"Do you know that I spent two days with her? Two days out searching for my brother, not knowing that the woman driving me around town was the very same one who had kidnapped him in the first place? She knew exactly where he was the whole time How could I have been so stupid? So naïve? All of the signs were there!"

"You can't beat yourself up over this. You can't live your life on what if's and if only's. I'm sure the signs seem clear to you now, but that doesn't mean they were so obvious then." She makes the final gesture, hand falling to rest comfortingly on Sam's knee, patting several times before she withdraws slowly in time with Sam's desperate response.

"Dean would have figured it out."

"How do you know that?" Milla demands. "How can you possibly know that Dean would have been any better off than you; how can you know that changing your positions wouldn't have resulted in the exact same outcome? You can't possibly know that, Sam. You can't. You have to stop blaming yourself for what happened."

"How come you get to walk around all broody and guilty over what happened to Dean and I can't?" Sam demands angrily. "You've got us living in your house, you're paying for renovations and driving me back and forth and treating my brother and me as though we were your long lost nephews or something…why is it okay for you and not okay for me?"

"The difference is that I'm trying to make amends for what happened. You're sitting here wallowing in the past, worrying about something you can't even change…but I'm just trying to move forward and do what I can to help both of you get through this."

"That's just it, though, I don't know if we _can_ get through this. It's a massive change. I'm worried about Dean's mental state."

"He seems fine to me," Milla says, "all things considered, of course."

"Trust me, he's not fine. He's far from it."

"Sam, there is a grieving process that everyone has to go through when such a traumatic thing happens in their lives. You can't expect Dean to pop up and be himself right from the start."

"You don't know him the way I do. He gets hurt plenty – enough to be laid up for days or weeks, but usually he ignores the injury as much as he can. It's all we could ever do to keep him in bed and heal. I can't even remember the last time he was formally discharged from a hospital."

"But this is a different kind of injury, Sam. As much as Dean might want to get out of bed and forget that he's hurt, he's physically incapable of doing so anymore. He can only just now talk, so he can't argue with you, can't fight the treatment…"

"That's the problem! He can't fight. All his life the only thing Dean has ever done is fight…fight for me, fight for justice, fight for a safer freakin world. And this is the thanks he gets for all of that – Adam took the fight away from him. So what's he supposed to do now?"

Milla sighs, clearly frustrated and at a loss for words. "I don't know, Sam," she finally says in defeat. "I'm not sure where you go from here, but I do know that you have to move forward. You can't turn back the clock, and you and I both know it. So does Dean."

There isn't much to say at that, not much of an argument to the truth, and Sam finds that he doesn't want to try to protest. If nothing else, Sam can hear the sincerity and the honesty behind the advice. It's a bit surreal to comprehend what has just happened between them. This is the first time since Dean got hurt that he has truly opened up. Yeah, he's had his outbursts, gotten advice from Kyle and Melissa and the staff at New Beginnings. But he's never really opened up about his fears, his worries and failures. And the fact that it's Milla, of all people, that Sam finally decides to confide in is almost as worrisome as the truth itself.

But it's also something of a relief, finally realizing that someone is available to listen to him. Someone that isn't Dean. It's a relief to finally unload when Sam has been bottling so much up since Dean was hurt.

He's been forcing a happy face around his brother for so long that Sam has actually forgotten what it's like to let his guard down and truly feel relief. The concept is actually foreign to him.

It's not Milla's words of advice that make Sam feel better (he's heard them all many times before) so much as it is the fact that she's listening to him, absorbing his fears and worries and troubles as her own, and just offering him a reprieve from the weight if it all.

Taking a long hard look at the woman, suddenly Sam finds himself understanding what Dean has been trying to say all along – that Milla is just as much of a victim in this as Dean is, and Sam. It's amazingly clear now that she doesn't have a mean bone in her body, nor does she possess any feelings of vindication for Adam and Lori Ann – something to which Sam can't even claim. Despite the PTSD that lies prominently on the surface – or maybe because of it – Milla has chosen to make the best of a truly fucked up situation. She's brought two complete strangers into her home, into her life – something which requires a great deal of trust and understanding that Sam isn't sure he would have possessed.

"I owe you an apology," Sam says, sincerity in his epiphany. "I've been horrible to you."

"You have just been protective of your brother," Milla replies, noticeably uncomfortable with the change in Sam's attitude. But the tension in her shoulders eases up, too, and some of the stress disappears from her voice.

"We're fiercely protective of each other. But that doesn't make my attitude any more reasonable. Dean's right – we've been hunting for years, yours wasn't the first possession I've witnessed in my life. You couldn't help yourself when you were under Adam's control and I should have acknowledged that a long time ago. Dean told me how you ran to him the second you regained control, he told me how you put yourself between him and the cops, that you probably saved his life. Thank you for that, Milla. I'm sorry I couldn't see it sooner."

Milla seems ready to dispel the apology once more, but she changes her mind at the last minute, understanding Sam's need to have her accept his apology as much as he needs to give it. Finally, she nods her head once in acknowledgement. "I'll accept your apology on one condition."

Sam cocks his head, inquiry written in his expression.

"You and I have to work together to make your brother's homecoming as smooth as possible. We do this together…as a team."

Sam's smile lights up the room as the tension lifts completely. "I think you've got yourself a deal," he says, and reaches for one of the pamphlets Milla has left on the coffee table – outlining different types of hospital beds. "I guess you and I still have some work to do before I go visit Dean today."

SUPERNATURAL

At Sam's request, Dean tries his best to actually listen at his next team meeting, tries to take part in it as much as possible. Linda has already told him that she will put the speaking valve back on before the meeting is over so that he can ask any questions he might have, and the promise is enough to make it worthwhile to participate. So far, everything regarding his care has been told to him, but not necessarily explained. If he's lucky, Sam asks the right questions and he gets the answers he needs, but most of the time Dean just goes without answers. It's been hard, frustrating, to be on the outside looking in while the rest of the world manipulates his body. And it doesn't matter that they have his best interest at heart, doesn't matter that Dean would probably give his consent anyway – he just wants to be informed!

The group comes about an hour before lunch, when Kyle is in the gym doing PT and Dean's got the room to himself. He's been told that eventually they will go to an actual meeting room, but for the time being they want Dean's time out of bed and in the wheelchair to be at a more productive interval, when therapists can be actually working with him and not just talking. So instead, chairs are brought in and positioned in a semi-circle around his bed, and they prop him up to about sixty degrees and get down to business.

Milla has come to this meeting, the first she has attended, and there is a palpable difference in the way she enters the room this time, _with_ Sam instead of behind him. It looks as though they have actually come to some sort of understanding – maybe even a friendship. She still stands out of the way, just an observer amidst family and medical professionals, but she's not altogether separated from the group now, either, and Dean notices Sam turn his body to include her in the discussion as he plants himself right next to Dean. Sam rests his hand comfortingly over the sheet that covers Dean's unresponsive left leg, unconsciously massaging the limb while making small talk as people file into the room. The remainder of the group joins quickly – Lanie, Justin – the OT,Dr. Liteman,Linda – the Speech Pathologist,Nurse Chelsea, Jamie Brand – the case manager.

His group therapist, Jeff Kierig enters pushing the wheels of his wheelchair and expertly maneuvering himself into a slot between two chairs. Of all of them, Dean thinks he despises this guy the most – because of what he represents. Since he was young, hospitals and social workers have been trying to force psychiatrists on him, get him to express his feelings and emotions, to talk about what troubles him. And so far, Dean has managed to avoid each and every one of them. But Jeff is different; he's like a leech that just grabs on and won't let go. Dean has only been to one group session so far, but Jeff has visited him every day, offering words of encouragement and trying to decipher what Dean is mouthing at him – fortunately failing miserably as Dean's just been cussing at him over and over again. But now that he's using the speaking valve, that means no protection anymore, and not being able to run away means being held against his will, a prisoner, the next time Jeff wants to talk.

Dean breaks eye contact from him immediately, scans around the room until his eye catches the bright new pictures Sam has added to his cork board, pictures from this year's Sports Illustrated Swimsuit calendar torn out and pasted in a semicircle around the Led Zeppelin poster. He can't help but smile to himself, imagines the words Sam must have grumbled under his breath as he searched for Dean-style pictures, and it's enough to put his mood back to amiable once more as he turns his attention back to the meeting.

When everyone has assembled Dr. Litemanshuts the door and begins the meeting. The doctor provides a simplistic history for those gathered and then launches into the progress reports, getting through his quickly before turning the floor over to the various therapists who work with Dean on a daily basis.

Dean can't help but feel completely disheartened by the discussion, though, despite the positive twist everyone tries to put on his progress. The group gets excited over milestones that a toddler could accomplish, and he just can't bring himself to be nearly as enthusiastic as they are.

Dr. Liteman announces that Dean's vitals have been showing a marked improvement over the past week, says he's impressed by the speed to which Dean has progressed in sitting upright, the length of time he can maintain the position.

Lanie gives an enthusiastic report about trunk control, and that Dean has managed to maintain a sitting position unassisted for two whole seconds. She also raves over his musculature, eager to report a reduction in atrophy just in the past week.

Speech and respiratory therapy go hand in hand, with Linda eagerly covering Dean's feeding milestones and his success during the first try at speaking, then a report by respiratory on the vent settings during that session.

Justin repeats an abbreviated version of the equipment needs he's discussed with Dean and Sam, announces what has already been ordered, and explains that the booties and hand splints he's had Dean wear for the past several nights have already shown a marked improvement in foot drop.

And Chelsea proudly tells the group that Dean has slept through the past two nights without an additional dose of medications, says it like she's a new parent announcing the sleeping patterns of her newborn baby, and all Dean can think is _la dee freakin dah_, _I can sleep without drugs._

The goals for the upcoming week are even more ridiculous than the report for the past week. They're looking for such menial tasks as chewing a banana and turning his head on his own, learning to use the sip n' puff controls that Justin plans to install on his bed that day, sitting in the wheelchair at 75 degrees for an hour and making a short trek outside, tolerating the speaking valve for 20 minute intervals.

Through it all, Dean is begging them to challenge him more, give him something to actually work towards. Screw turning his head, how about moving his foot? How about walking? How about breathing? He wants to scream, throw something, kick something. If they would just give him better goals, he'd be getting better. He's sure of it!

The bitterness over his situation overwhelms him to a point that he can no longer concentrate on the conversation around him, or the people for that matter, so it comes as something of a surprise when he finds Linda with her hands on his neck gently tugging open the cap at his throat and starting to suction his lungs out. "You ready to ask your questions?"

Hell yeah, he's ready. Dean blinks his 'yes' and waits to feel the air whooshing up around his vocal cords as they had yesterday. He's prepared this time, but it doesn't prevent the soft tickle that works its way through his windpipe, a desperate need to cough that comes out more as a wheeze because his muscles don't work anymore to bring up the mucous.

Dean only allows one breath of air to pass by him before he's chiding the group in front of him. "You're not--- challenging--- me enough. ---Need bigger--- goals."

It seems almost as though a group sigh sounds out from the room, their faces immediately taking on that look of pity that Dean hates so much. They all look to each other, silently deciding who will be the one to break the bad news that Dean expects from the tension in the air.

Finally, Dr. Liteman clears his throat and takes a step forward, hands outstretched towards Dean in a gesture of peace. "These _are_ challenging goals," the doctor says, genuinely apologetic. "I know it must seem as though you're being reduced to infantile expectations, but unfortunately your injury level doesn't allow for much in the way of fast progress. You're on a different time scale here, Dean. We can't go at the fast pace you're probably used to moving at. Some of these goals for next week may actually take weeks or even months to achieve."

"I can do--- better," Dean insists, for once glad for the reduced inflection in his whispery voice that hides the whine he knows would be prominent otherwise.

"I hope you can prove that to us," Dr. Liteman adds.

He seems sincere enough, but Dean can't help but wonder if the reply is just a way to put an end to the uncomfortable topic. And Dean doesn't have it in him to protest, just determines to do exactly what the doctor has said – prove that he's got more in himself than the therapists are giving him credit for.

For just a moment Dean closes his eyes and gathers himself, forcing out the negative vibes he's getting from the rest of the room and tries not to allow himself to be overwhelmed by the situation. It's hard enough keeping his head above water when he's drowning in his own feelings of negativity – harder still when he's feeling as though no one else has faith in his recovery, either.

"I could use--- a real--- shower," he finally tells them, and immediately flinches while waiting for another 'no.'

To his surprise, though, Dr. Liteman nods his head and looks at Chelsea. "See if you can organize the staff for that in the next couple of days, will you? I think Dean is stable enough to try a shower."

SUPERNATURAL – two weeks later

1 It must be the meds they have him on. Has to be. Because Dean can't think of another reason why he'd be sitting here spouting the things he is to a group of strangers. If it was Sam, he would have been teasing him, giving him grief to no end, calling it diarrhea of the mouth, this angsty, moody shit spouting in every direction and he just can't stop himself, can't hold it in any longer. Someone's got to know the truth. And if not them, if not the seven other quadriplegic's sitting in this little group therapy session, then who? They're the closest thing he's got to finding people who know what he's going through.

"I can't let my little--- brother put his life on--- hold to take care of--- me like this," Dean says in his breathless, broken speech to the group assembled in the room. "He's got plans, a chance---. He's got a future. But not--- if he's stuck taking care--- of me. I think--- he would have been better--- off if I'da died that day---. Think I'da been better--- off, too."

He sort of expects the therapist leading this session to put a stop to what he's saying, tell him that's not the way to talk and to think positive and all that other crap. But Jeff likes to create controversy and discussion, so instead, he's just sitting there in his own wheelchair, one thin bony leg pulled up and crossed over the other, with a hint of a smile on his lips as he and the rest of the group listen to Dean speak. The man is more concerned with getting Dean to open up than he is about what he's saying exactly.

"You might think that now, but things will get better eventually. You won't always be so dependent on him," one of the other patients volunteers. Dean looks over at the woman and remembers her from other sessions. He'd nicknamed her "Debbie do-gooder" a few back, when he still _couldn't_ talk, because she was always offering up words of advice and comfort to the others. She's a C-6 quad who has never known the terrors of being dependent on a vent, never known the fear that something on your only lifeline might become disconnected. She has movement in her arms, which she blatantly displays in wild gestures as she talks, and most of the time is able to push herself around in a manual wheelchair. She has no idea what Dean will go through for the rest of his life, and to him, her comfort is more patronizing than helpful.

Dean looks around the room at the other's assembled with him today. Most, he knows - or at least recognizes from other sessions over the past month. Other's are brand new to him. There're nearly 30 in-patients with some sort of paralysis at the rehab center, more than 20 are considered quads, and among those the selection gets mixed up for each group session to create groups of no more than 8. He's not the only one on a vent, but as near as he can tell he's the only one right now with an injury high enough that he'll remain on it for good. The others are lower, have some muscle control to work their lungs, and have already been started on the process of being weaned off.

"Lady, you got no idea--- what you're talking about," Dean snaps, immediately frustrated because even that isn't nearly as effective when he's got to wait for the ventilator to give him more air halfway through what he's saying. "The whole lot of you. You've all--- got stuff to look forward--- to in your recovery. Me?--- This is all I got. This--- is everything, for me." It takes him four breaths to get it all out, and he's amazed that the rest of the group just sits there and listens, waits, doesn't try to interrupt him when he's got to pause for more air.

"Every one of you can--- look around and find someone who's worse--- off than you are. You all have the luxury of--- being able to say 'thank--- god, that's not me.' But I--- can't - I'm as bad off as--- it gets."

"But you still have your mind," 'Debbie' says, unwilling to give up until she's accomplished her goal.

"Yeah," Dean snaps back. "So I can--- sit around all day and _think_ about--- the things I can't do anymore--- I can _think_ about what I'm--- putting my little brother through--. Thanks, but I'm not so sure--- having my mind is a good--- thing."

"You would prefer he sit there wiping the drool from your face while he talks to an empty shell?"

"No!" Dean spits back, and immediately wishes he could put more volume to his convictions. "I would rather I was dead!"

That's where the conversation grinds to a halt as the group therapist finally jumps in. His hands go up and the calm facade he usually wears has just a little bit of panic and concern in it when he looks at Dean. "Alright guys, that's enough sharing for today. Dean–" he looks him straight in the eye, maintains the contact until Dean is forced to look up and meet his gaze. "Dean, it _will_ get better. Trust me, you don't want to die. Things will improve."

Dean looks away, back down to his hands. He's too spent to continue the conversation, and honestly, what does it matter if he can convince them of his feelings or not. It's not as though he's got any control over his death. He's completely helpless. Can't breathe on his own, can't eat without help. Damnit, can't even kill himself.

Session wraps up pretty swiftly after that, and Dean can feel the lingering gaze of the therapist as one of the orderlies retrieves him and takes him from the room, back to his own room where they will pick him up like a baby and lay him down for a nap before lunchtime.

_Useless, _he tells himself in regards to his wasted life, to _Sam's_ wasted life. _Gotta figure out a way to set Sammy free._

---

Later that afternoon Dean finds himself relegated to the activity room and sat in front of the TV while some feel good afternoon movie blathers on in the background. He's tuned it out, focusing instead on completely blanking his mind until someone returns to take him back to his room. The rest of the sound in the room blends together into white noise in his head. He is barely aware of the game of checkers being played in the back corner, or the round of Hearts at the table right behind the couch, or the three or four other conversations taking place at various other locations throughout the room.

Right now it's just him. _And my mind_, he thinks bitterly, recalling the conversation from therapy that day. This just isn't right. He's not supposed to be dwindled down to just his mind. He's the brawn of the operation; Sam's the brain. But then, that's not right either because by that logic it would be _Sam _stuck rotting away in a wheelchair. And he wouldn't wish this hell on anybody, least of all Sam. _God, this sucks._

He's so lost in thought that be doesn't even notice the guy facing him in his own chair until fingers snap in front of his face, practically brushing against his nose. Dean startles, lets out a little cry of surprise, and immediately recovers with, "Who the fuck are you?"

Dean has seen the guy around, but he's part of the _other_ group. Low level, got full use of his hands and arms and upper body, goes to different therapy sessions and hangs with a different crowd. _God, it's like highschool all over again, forming different cliques, staying with your own kind._

The guy blinks and offers an amused smile, but doesn't back off. "Not exactly the reaction I'd been going for, but I guess I can't blame you under the circumstances." He's got an accent, sounds Australian almost, but Dean isn't about to worry himself about this guy's nation of origin.

"I asked you who you are," Dean repeats, staring the guy down in what he hopes is his most withering glare.

"Name's Mitch, mate. I'd offer my hand but I don't really get the impression that'd do much good."

"What the hell do you--- want, Mitch?" He _hates_ that damn, stupid ventilator. Wants to talk without sounding like a freak!

The guy sighs and looks down at his feet, frowning. "Friend of mine said you were having a hard time of it. Wanted me to give you something."

"What?"

"Guess he was right," Mitch replies, reacting to Dean's harsh, abrupt tone. "Look, man, I don't really agree with this. Truth be told, I think you need more time to work things out before you go making such rash decisions. But everyone's entitled to make their own choices."

"What the hell are you--- talking about?" Dean demands, way above annoyed that he's been interrupted from his thoughts like this. He doesn't want to talk to anyone, doesn't want to _know_ anyone. Especially not if they're just going to ramble on with nonsensical blather like this guy is.

Mitch pauses again, takes a good long hard look at Dean, then reaches between his legs for a small piece of paper. He folds it up into an even smaller square and reaches for Dean's hand, gently uncurling the clenched fingers and placing the paper inside before allowing the fingers to curl back in on themselves.

Dean watches all of this in disdain, humiliated that this guy who he doesn't even know has just taken it upon himself to touch him, to manipulate his hands, and the fact that there's not a damn thing he can do about it.

"You only use that if you're truly convinced there's no other way out," he warns, still hasn't told Dean what it is or what he's supposed to do with it. For that matter, how the hell is he supposed to look at it in the first place?

"Still don't know what you're--- giving me."

Mitch looks away, back down at his lap. "It's a name and a phone number. Guy who helps people–" he hesitates and struggles over the words, "people in your situation. Who want to get out."

Leaning forward in his chair Mitch clasps the hand that holds the paper with both of his own and pats it, hard from the looks of things, but what does Dean know. He forces eye contact with Dean, looks deep into his soul with the strength of his own eyes. "Just promise me you'll think about this. Don't rush into anything."

All Dean can do is nod, barely, since he's still wearing a c-collar when he's up and out of bed. He returns Mitch's gaze and doesn't break it until the aussie severs contact and turns away, leaving the room as quietly as he'd entered.

'Thank You,' Dean mouths behind him as he leaves, no sound to back it up. And then looks down to his hand where the paper just barely peeks out from his fingers. Despite his promise to Mitch his decision is made in an instant, made because of the fact that he's helpless to even unfold the paper curled in his limp hand and look at the number inside. He can't ask Sam to follow him around for the rest of his life, bathing him and dressing him and feeding him and moving him back and forth from bed and a wheelchair. It's not fair. To either of them.

It's just not fair.

SUPERNATURAL

By the time Kyle shows up in their room that evening Dean has already been fed his dinner and laid in bed, propped up on his side by a stack of pillows. He's been thinking about the paper for hours, debating how and when he'll make the call. It's frustrating, having to plot such a simple task – just a phone call. And yet, so much more. The thing about having no control of your body is that it means no privacy, no secrets, nothing ever easy. It's a fact that hits Dean hard as he lays in bed contemplating the logistics of how he's supposed to make his phone call without anybody finding out.

The only thing he knows for sure is that it must be done. He can't make Sam sit out the rest of his life, throwing all his hopes and dreams out the window in order to take care of Dean. It's just not happening; no way, no how.

"Hey, man, how was your day?" Kyle asks casually as he heads straight to the dresser for a pair of boxers and a t-shirt, sleepwear.

"Great," Dean replies sarcastically, once the air catches up with his words. "Went for a jog this," a pause as he waits for more air. "---morning. And then joined a few--- friends for a basketball game."

Kyle chuckles to himself, appreciating Dean's sense of humor and completely missing the fact that his sarcasm is a fierce cover-up for the intense pain deep inside. "Ah, productive then." He wiggles out of the shirt he's currently wearing and starts to pull the cotton T over his head.

"That's nothing. Tomorrow I'm running--- a triathlon. Care to join?"

"Think I'm gonna have to pass on that one. Bunch of friends and I will be sky diving tomorrow. But have fun."

"Thanks," Dean says, then pauses, squeezes his eyes shut for several breaths before working up the nerve to ask. "I need your help," Dean says, desperation in his whispy voice. The vent forces another breath into his lungs, and Dean grits his teeth against the emotion. "I've been waiting all evening for you."

"Sorry I was MIA" Kyle answers, good-naturedly, but hinting at requiring some respect if Dean wants anything from him. "You could have gotten an aid to help, or your nurse."

"It has to be you," Dean snaps, then quickly apologizes – or, at least as quickly as his air flow will allow. Despite his conviction, butterflies are fluttering all throughout his stomach, turning it in knots.

Kyle gets suddenly serious, wheeling himself closer and giving his full attention to his roommate. "What's going on, man?"

"I need to make a phone call."

"That's it? A phone call? That's what's got you so worked up?"

"This is serious, Kyle," Dean insists, glaring at his roommate. "Are you gonna help--- me or not?"

Sighing and raising and dropping his arms in surrender Kyle agrees. "Of course I'm gonna help you, idiot. I just don't understand what all the fuss is about. Who do you need me to call?"

"On the paper under the--- clock," Dean says, eying the white corner that just barely peeks out beneath the digital alarm clock and remembering, with trepidation, just how it had ended up there.

_It had been sheer force of luck that he'd managed to keep Mona from reading the numbers as she and the night aid had put him to bed. The piece of paper had stayed hidden within his clenched fist as he'd been fed dinner and went through another trach suction, and only once it was time to go back to his room did he realize that at some point someone was going to straighten out his fist, put the brace back on that he wears at night, and the note would be discovered. There was no way to know how recognizable the number is, no way for him to know if there is a name written with it and how well the staff would know this mystery savior that will end Dean's troubles. But seeing as how the place wasn't exactly a glaring ad for excitement and livelihood he imagined quite a few of the patients had come across this guy during their stay. What actually seemed more mystifying is the fact that Dean hadn't heard any stories of patients offing themselves while in rehab – but assumed it was just the case of the hospital doing a superb job of keeping those stories on the down-low. _

_ Mona had found the paper as she unclipped the straps that keep him secured in the chair, and she'd been close to reading it, in the process of unfolding the paper as she asked Dean where it had come from, and he'd been tongue-tied, trying to keep her prying eyes off. But the night aid had chosen that moment to call her attention to the start of a sore on Dean's left ankle which, in itself, was bad news but seeing as how Dean has got no intention of staying alive long enough for it to fester he just thanked his lucky stars for the distraction and considered it a fortuitous turn of events. That, and it just stood to emphasize his reasons for his plans. _

_ He'd watched carefully as Mona dropped the paper on his nightstand, kept an eye on it through the whole transfer process and nighttime routine. He'd seen it get pushed underneath the edge of the clock as she laid supplies on the table. _

_ And he'd been checking on it ever since, keeping his head turned just so as the television blared on in the background. It hasn't moved – not that he expected it to, but still, this was his _life_ on the line here. And he's ready to be free of the hell he's living. _

Dean continues, afraid he might chicken out if he doesn't get it all out. It's frustrating when the vent still limits the speed to which he can speak, but the frustration serves to spur him on. "I need you to call the--- number on it. Then I--- need some privacy."

Rolling his eyes, Kyle reaches out and pushes the clock back, manipulating his uncooperative hands to pick up the paper. With his fine motor skills nonexistent he's got to grip it between the palms of both hands, then use his mouth to help unfold the paper until the number is revealed. It's the first time Dean has seen the number and relief overwhelms him when the only thing on the paper is the name Frank and a phone number – no distinguishing information whatsoever.

"What's so special about this phone call that you needed me to dial it?" Kyle demands, still annoyingly curious, as he forces the phone into the hands-free cradle beside Dean's bed and adjusts the height so that it sits right by Dean's ear. Dean notices he doesn't start dialing, just waits for an answer as if to say 'I'm not doing anything until you tell me what's going on.' He's looking at Dean and the number suspiciously.

"They were busy," Dean lies.

"No they weren't. You just said it had to be me to make the call. Who is this, Dean? Who's Frank?"

Dean pauses for a long time, gears tuning in his mind as he tries to formulate some sort of explanation that Kyle might buy. He's rusty, though, hasn't had to come up with a lie in forever. It's enough just to speak these days, and most of the time nobody expects him to talk long enough to say much more than is necessary. He finally settles for the truth, or rather, a rough estimate of the truth – a bit of a stretch, but one he thinks will work.

"One of the guys from my group--- gave me his number, said he--- was a counselor or some--- thing and that he might be--- able to help. I just don't--- want them to know that--- I'm going outside the--- center."

He holds his breath, metaphorically speaking, and waits for Kyle's response, unsure what he'll do if the man doesn't buy the explanation. Kyle studies him for several seconds, a look of skepticism shadowing his face. But finally he nods, and reaches once again for the phone.

"Mr. Big-shot can't admit that he's actually willing to seek help, huh?" Kyle presses, clearly coming to a different conclusion based on the situation. Dean does a dance of relief in his mind – smiles grimly and allows his roommate to think what he wants, just so long as he's following Dean's request.

"Need to be alone for this," is all he says, eyes pleading with Kyle to agree as Dean hears the phone ringing on the other end.

Miraculously, Kyle nods in agreement and turns from the room just as the phone is answered and a gruff voice says "hello" into Dean's ear.

Dean waits for his next breath, hoping that Kyle is far enough out the doorway before he says anything. "Is this Frank?" he asks. Trepidation fills him, chest clenching and heart pounding with a daunting fear as Dean waits for the anticipated yes. When it comes, he finds himself procrastinating, allowing a full breath to pass before taking advantage of the next. Surprisingly, the man on the other end waits patiently, seemingly aware of the ventilator that forces regulation of Dean's speech. "What can I do for you?" he asks in the silence that follows.

"I was told you could help--- me," Dean says, finding power in his voice where there hasn't been in some time. But his conviction holds as he adds, "I need you to--- come soon."


	7. Chapter 7

Later Sam will claim it was fate that he noticed his untied shoelace right in front of Dean's room, but at this very moment it is just another annoyance in this already very crappy day. He's kneeling down to re-tie it right there, a little bit aside from the half closed door, when he hears the voice inside the room, and instantly he knows that something in there must be very very wrong.

For once, it's a voice he doesn't know; it's male, cultivated and confident like a doctor's, with a hint of the self-assured arrogance Dr. Prentiss had, and yet... too benign. There is something not right, something hidden and fake in this voice, but Sam decides that he should at least try to listen to the actual words of the conversation before he storms

"So... there is absolutely no chance of recovery?"

Definitely not a doctor then, one of them would have been privy to that kind of information. Sam can't hear Dean's reply, his brother's new strange voice rarely gets louder than a whisper these days, but he still knows what Dean is telling the man. Spinal cord completely severed, no function below site of injury. The whole painful story that has shaped their life for the last months and will remain with them for the rest of their lives. It will never go away, never get better... Then the voice says something that shatters Sam's world like few things in his life have managed to do.

"Well, Mr. Keyser, I must say that my ... organization rarely deals with people whose injuries are so recent. We find that – after an initial stage of depression that is, of course, completely natural - they often manage to adapt despite all sorts of adversities and never consider suicide again. But if you have special reasons... Can you tell me why we should make an exception in your case?"

_Suicide_.

The word itself hurts like a knife, the pain vibrating in Sam's brain and heart and stomach. This guy wants to... Dean wants to... Suddenly, there is nothing but the feeling of burning, blinding rage, hot like the center of a flame, like Sam has never felt before, an emotion so beyond anything else that Sam's whole being is consumed by it. Rage drowns out his senses, his sense of time, his mind.

The world melts.

When he comes around again, Sam is inside of Dean's room and the first thing that breaks into the haze is the intense pain in his throat. A millisecond later, he realizes that he's yelling at the top of his lungs - the strength of his voice tearing at his vocal cords - then that he is yelling at a man he has pinned against a wall. He doesn't understand his own words, his ears still trapped in the red world of fury, but his sense of touch is all there and his big hands clutch the man's shoulders harder, pushing his fingers deeper into the flesh. He wants to hurt this bastard so badly, wants to punish the guy for even thinking about taking Dean away from him, wants to kill... Then his ears are back and he hears his own voice, rough and torn, repeating the words over and over again.

"I'll kill you if you touch him! I'll kill you if you touch him!"

His eyes are able to focus again, and then he stops shouting because the man's eyes look up to him _completely without fear_ and in a situation like this nothing can be scarier than a man who gets himself kicked around by a berserk giant and still looks so utterly unimpressed. More than that. The man looks sympathetic.

Sam is too dumbfounded to continue his attack, and then someone jerks him away from the guy and there are voices, too many at a time, arms grabbing him. He's still too far gone to understand, so he simply gives up and he lets the hands guide him down to the floor.

He's numb now, and empty.

Some people leave the room, some others stay behind; he can tell that much. Someone, no, not someone, the red hair is familiar... Chelsea is kneeling in front of him, her hands carefully stretched out to lightly rest on his shoulders.

"It's okay, Sam. It's okay, nobody here will hurt Dean, you hear me? It's okay, I promise."

Her voice relaxes him a bit, her familiar face an anchor to steady him. Until he hears another voice - a man - standing right behind her, talking to a third person.

"I'm so sorry, Tanya. I was sloppy. It won't happen again."

The voice is cultivated and still very confident, maybe slightly shaky now; but before Sam can jump up to finally off the guy, Chelsea intensifies her grip and keeps him down, the effort more symbolic than anything, futile against the raw power of Sam's muscled body, but most effective against his addled brain.

In the end, it's the face of Tanya Jackson that brings him fully back down to earth. She extends a hand to help him stand up, and as Sam brain gets more and more alert, it dawns on him that she is suspiciously calm about the whole thing. But then again, she probably tries to keep everyone relaxed till the cops arrive, he thinks. After all, he just pretty much tried to kill a guy who had pretty much volunteered to kill his brother.

But, as soon as he is steady on his feet, Tanya takes one step back and waves the guy to come closer. Coming face to face with the guy does nothing for Sam's composure. The man is almost as tall as Sam is, and what intimidation he lacks in muscle he makes up for in sheer academic appearance. Instead of the seemingly requisite khakis and polo shirt that Sam has grown used to throughout the day at the rehab center, this stranger has on a pair of tailored pants, creased neatly down the center, and a light blue long-sleeved dress shirt and striped tie underneath a darker blue knitted vest. His salt and pepper hair is trimmed short, every strand combed neatly into place, and he wears square wire-rimmed glasses that he adjusts from their skewed position as he is standing in front of Sam. It is clear that he is used to being respected and given wide-berth. Sam tenses again, and he shoots the guy a glare that could cut through steel.

"Director Jackson, you don't understand! That bastard, he - "

" - is the head of our Psychology Department."

" - said he'd help... WHAT?"

"Sam, this is Dr. Ed Reynolds. I promise he meant no harm..."

A sound comes from Dean's bed at this revelation, something between a cry and a sob. _Dean._ In his rage, he has forgotten about Dean.

Sam pushes Tanya aside with a little more force than necessary. Now that he has himself under control again, his only objective is his brother.

Dean's face is even scarier than Dr. Reynolds' fearless eyes. The usually handsome features are contorted with emotion, the eyes tightly shut, the forehead wrinkled. It looks unnatural, like it must hurt to screw up his face like this, and it probably does. There are wet trails on Dean's cheeks, and more and more tears are streaming down. His lips are bloody from biting down on them so hard in his agitation, and he moves them constantly, speaking but completely out of sync with the vent, so Sam can hear only fragments of sentences whenever the ventilator doesn't interrupt Dean's speech.

"Stupid---how could I be --- not check --- trust someone --- so stupid"

"Oh god, Dean."

Sam reaches with one hand to stroke his brother's hair, too scared to touch a face that convulses with pain that isn't physical, but before he can touch him Tanya holds him back.

"Sam, we think you should leave now. Just for a little bit. Let him calm down a bit first, okay?"

Dr. Reynolds leaves the room with him, and when they're at the door Sam thinks he has figured out what happened, so he follows him down the corridor towards the elevators.

"He thought you were the real deal, right?"

"Yes. Until you blew my cover."

"But.... why? How?" Sam doesn't even make an attempt at sounding apologetic about the whole cover thing; his heart still hasn't stopped pounding and he's a little bit pissed that they didn't consult him before they started this whole damn façade.

"Standard procedure when people get too desperate. Better they seek _help_", he does air quotes at the word, wincing when he lifts his arms, and guilt blooms in Sam's chest, "with us than with an outsider who might actually do the deed. We stall them until things are looking up again. Some find out it's a hoax, some don't. In the end, though, almost all of them are grateful they didn't go through with it."

"Oh. So you don't really..."

"Of course not"

"But Dean really wants to..."

"That's what he thinks. With a little luck, we have cured him of that notion today."

"Would it help then if I was really sorry about, you know, almost killing you?"

Dr. Reynolds smiles. They are at the elevators, now, and the psychologist pushes the up button, to where Sam remembers the rooms of the psych department are located.

"Sam, your reaction, no matter how ferocious it might have looked, was still completely natural. I think you might actually have done some good by almost killing me." The doctor chuckles nervously. "You just proved how much he means to you."

Sam looks more than skeptical at this, but the doctor nods reassuringly.

"You see, Dean's reason for special treatment? He doesn't want to be your burden, wants you _free to live your life._" He air quotes again, the elevator tings, the door opens and before Sam has fully grasped the words, Dr. Reynolds is gone. Then it sinks in. Dean wants to sacrifice himself for Sam. Again.

That stupid idiot.

SUPERNATURAL

When Sam returns to Dean's room he's trembling with anger all over again, only this time it's a controlled familiar feeling that has been with him many times in his life.

Dean has been turned on his side, so that he faces away from the door and Kyle's bed and towards the wall instead, pillows under the major joints to keep him supported. Apart from the rhythmic expansion of his chest, his body is absolutely still, and for a second Sam wonders when or if he will ever get used to the sight of a body that just won't move. He decides right then and there that he will indeed and it will be soon.

He circles the bed slowly, lets his footstep fall hard to announce his coming but doesn't say a word until he's standing right in front of Dean.

"Hey."

Dean's eyes are open, face recently washed, and there is the white sheen of ointment on his lips. His head is angled to look directly at the wall, but at Sam's greeting he rolls his eyes up as far as he can, both of them waiting for the ventilator and the right moment. Then it comes, like a whisper.

"Hey"

Sam crouches down until their faces are at the same height. There is so much he wants to say, so very very much and yet, his next words flow out naturally.

"You stupid selfish bastard!" And he doesn't regret his words, not even when Dean flinches at them like a slap in the face. His brother opens his mouth to say something, but Sam exploits his advantage and just goes on.

"How dare you! How dare you even think about shit like that... Dean, I can barely live with _this_ and you want to fucking _kill_ yourself for _me_. Are you insane?"

Dean wants to say something, Sam can tell, but right now, oh, he so doesn't care.

"I couldn't live with myself, you know. Shit, Dean, you saw what happened right there. If... if you actually _died_ for me like that, without even a warning, you bastard... I think I'd lose it completely."

"Not for you. I wouldn't do it --- for you alone, Sam. For --- me, too. This is hell!"

"Oh, please. Do you think I'll believe for a second that Dean Winchester would take the coward's way out of a situation? There are thousands of people out there who live with an injury like yours. And if they can do it, then you can do it, too!"

"You are really obvious --- Mr. Pep-Talk"

And Sam could cry for joy at Dean's sarcasm, because that is a side of his brother he can deal with. It's to his own surprise that he feels actual tears run down his face.

"Dean..." and he reaches out for their ritual touch of his hand on his brother's temple – finally- and then he falls apart completely, crying and heaving and sobbing, with his face next to Dean's.

"Oh, Dean. Don't leave, promise. Please. Promise that you won't leave me."

An eternity later, when Sam sits back to wipe his wet face, Dean's eyes are dry, calm and scarily serious.

"I promise, Sammy. I promise that I won't leave you."

There is a silent second, then Dean smiles.

"But you won't --- have it easy. Now get me --- a new pillow, 'cos this one --- has your snot all over it."

-----

Promises, Dean soon realizes, are a bitch. He's never lied to Sam, never made a promise that he didn't intend to keep. And he's not about to go back on his word now. But promises made in the heat of the moment, backed by emotion rather than consideration, are the hardest to uphold.

Sam stays that night, too afraid to leave Dean's side after the heavy revelation of what Dean had intended to do. He sleeps curled up restlessly in the chair beside the bed, just as he had night after night in the hospital. Dean is positioned slightly on his side, facing Sam. He still has a bootie on his right foot, but the other has been left off, the ankle propped on a pillow so that the developing sore is untouched and exposed to the air to heal.

For a long time that night Dean just watches Sam, jealousy frayed around the edges of his subconscious as Sam's chest moves up and down on its own in the shadows and he shifts unconsciously in his sleep as he tries to find a better position. Dean would give anything to be that uncomfortable, to feel the cramping and stiffness from a night curled up in a too small chair. He would do anything to escape the confines of his body. _Would_ do it, but now he can't, because he's promised Sam.

He tries to remind himself that the plan never would have worked anyway, angrily remembers that the mysterious doctor that rushed to his side was not who he'd thought him to be. The head of the Psychology Department, Tanya had said. The man had misrepresented himself, had made Dean believe that he was there to relieve him of his pain, would help him to let go, to die peacefully. Everyone had been in on it, Dean realizes, and it's a bitter pill to swallow.

He wonders just how long this plan has been in the works – just since the group therapy session or maybe since the pop-off or longer than that even? It doesn't feel right, them messing with his mind the way they did, screwing with his emotions and his thoughts as though he hasn't had enough time to think things through on his own. That's all Dean _does_ is think – day in and day out as he lays motionless in bed waiting for someone to bathe him and get him dressed and feed him, to give him a voice and stretch his limbs and move him from bed to chair and chair to bed. Dean's entire world is dictated for him, when he wakes, when he eats, where he goes. He doesn't have a choice in any of that – but can control his own thoughts. And it's not fair that even those are now being controlled for him.

_Sorry, Dean. You're not allowed to have suicidal thoughts. You must be _happy, he thinks, sourly picturing the happy-go-lucky staff that seems determined to improve his mood despite his determination to do just the opposite.

It's not fair. If he wanted to be happy, he would be. But it's been a long time since Dean has found a reason to be cheerful – much longer than he's been injured. The spinal cord injury is just the icing on the cake, just one more reason for Dean to feel as though his entire existence on this god-forsaken earth has been for nothing. Before, the only reason Dean really cared was his family – keeping them safe and protected. Now he doesn't even have that. Now it is Sam's turn to protect Dean, to care for him.

But being Sammy's protector is all Dean has ever known in his life, and if he doesn't have that there isn't much else to live for.

_But you are protecting Sam_, a voice inside his head reminds him. Outwardly, Dean scowls, but he can't help but picture the emotion Sam displayed when he attacked the doctor. There was something carnal in his brother's reaction, something honest and raw. That kind of emotion isn't created, Dean realizes. So maybe – just maybe – staying alive for Sam and fighting to make something worthwhile of himself _would_ be considered protecting Sam. Not in the way he's used to, no longer physically, but emotionally. And heaven knows Sam could use some emotional protection in his life. With watching Jess die, and their father, and their father's ominous deathbed confession about Sam – and then Dean's injury, too. Sam's life is like living inside his own soap opera.

Dean would be lying if he said he it would be easy to move forward, that he was willingly ready to give life in a chair, dependent on a ventilator and nurses, a try. Just watching Sam sleep has him feeling sick, the fear that he's going to end up resenting his brother for guilting him into staying put so strong and completely irrepressible.

But he will try. He will keep his promise to Sam, like he's always done.

Resolve strong in his mind, Dean closes his eyes and tries to get some sleep

---

Sam's phone rings early the next morning, loud and shrill and just obnoxious enough to wake everyone in the room.

"Shut that damn thing off," Kyle groans, struggling to pull his pillow over his head to drown out the sound.

"Sorry. Sorry," Sam says. He struggles into a sit, his muscles protesting the long night spent curled up in a too small chair, and finally paws the phone from his pocket, hits the answer button and snaps 'hello' into the phone without looking to see who was calling.

He expects the voice to be Milla's, checking up on him because he's got her car and he didn't come home last night, and he's all ready with a cursory explanation to get her off his back long enough for him to get home. So the familiar gruff voice that demands attention as it thunders through the phone is more than a shock.

"Bobby?" Sam squeaks out. He looks up just in time to see Dean's eyes widen into saucers, watches his brother silently, frantically beg that he not say a word to Bobby. They've been through this already, multiple times. Doesn't matter how much Sam thinks they need to tell their friends, Dean is adamant that nobody find out what's happened to him. And as much as Sam would love to defy his brother on this one thing, as much as he would love a familiar shoulder to cry on and mourn with, he can't bring himself to go against Dean's wishes.

"I'm trying to sleep here," Kyle snaps.

Schooling his emotions, Sam takes a deep breath and tries again, nearly whispered this time. "Bobby, what's going on man?"

_Sam? Are you boys okay? I've been trying to reach you two for weeks. Where the hell have you been?_

Well shit, nothing like coming right out and asking exactly what Sam doesn't want to talk about. "We're fine, Bobby. Just laying low for a while. We've had a few rough hunts back to back, needed some time to regroup." It's not exactly a lie, he thinks, just a stretched version of the truth. On the bed, he can see Dean relax, and that's enough to tell him the lie was believable.

_What kind of hunts? What happened, Sam?_

Ok, so maybe believable, but unfortunately not thorough enough.

"Nothing happened, Bobby. Not really – we're just tired. Needed a break."

_And needing a break means you can't pick up a damn phone? Do you have any idea how many times I've tried to call in the past weeks? Dean's phone doesn't even seem like it's working anymore, just goes straight to voicemail. And yours, it rings and rings… I don't know what's worse, Sam._

"Yeah, I know, Bobby. I'm sorry – really. We just…" He trails off, sighs, "we figured if we answered the phone it would be too compelling to take a hunt. Just needed to totally segregate for a while. Why, what's going on Bobby…did you need something?"

_Well, I _did_ need you idgits to take a hunt out in New Hampshire. But I got someone else to do it when you didn't pick-up. So now I'm just checking up on you, making sure you didn't decapitate yourselves or something._

Sam winces, swallows hard. The man doesn't realize just how close he's come to the truth in that statement, and it takes Sam several moments to compose himself before he can speak again. "No, nothing like that," he finally chokes out, turning away from Dean before he finishes the statement. He can't look at his brother, can't face the memories and the reality that Bobby's comment has brought forth.

_So how long do you boys plan to do this retirement act? _There is no malice in Bobby's tone, but Sam does sense a bit of irritation.

Closing his eyes, Sam rallies himself to finish the conversation, and finally realizes that his best bet may be to turn the subject around on Bobby. "We're coming back slowly. We're actually working on a case already, and I'd like to pick your brain about something, but this isn't really a good time to talk. Can I call you later tonight?" He would love to not have to continue this conversation, but Sam can't come up with another way to stonewall the man, and at least this way he'll have time to come up with a good explanation.

Bobby seems caught off guard, but encouraged by Sam's willingness to share. _Yeah, Sam. Call me later – no problem. Just make sure that idiot brother is available to talk, too. I'd like to hear from him that he's alright. _

"Yeah, okay," Sam says, distracted. He can hear the medicine carts rattling out into the hall and the last thing he needs is one of Dean's nurses coming in while Bobby is still on the phone to overhear. "I'll talk to you tonight."

He doesn't wait for a good-bye, just hangs up the phone and tosses it onto the tray at Dean's bedside as though he'd just been stung. "Shit," he curses under his breath, doesn't mean for Dean to hear but he does anyway.

Dean raises his eyebrows expectantly, waiting for Sam to fill him in on the conversation. "I'm not sure how long I can lie to him, Dean. It doesn't feel right."

Sam watches as his brother's gaze hardens, and he can't help the flinch that accompanies his reaction to the change. "Look, Dean, I promised you I wouldn't break your confidence and I won't – not without your permission. But he's family, Dean, about as close to a real father as you and I ever had. And now with Dad gone…"

Dean doesn't have to say a word to get his point across, his eyes say it all, and Sam doesn't have it in him to argue. Especially not after last night, not after the revelation of Dean's intention for assisted suicide. Sam still has a queasy stomach just thinking about it, and he can't really look at his brother anymore without wondering how long it will be before he tries something like that again.

"I won't say anything, Dean, but that means you have to stay with me. You can't make me shut out our friends and then leave me too." It's playing hardball, probably a pretty jackass thing to do, but he just has to be sure. He's got to know that Dean's promise from the night before wasn't a lie.

But they're in a bit of stalemate, because right now it doesn't matter what Dean says, Sam isn't ready to trust. And until they can both come to an agreement, there won't be any peace between the two of them.

Salvation comes in the form of Chelsea, arriving to prepare Dean for his morning. The surprise on her face when she sees Sam, still disheveled from his night on the lounge chair, is genuine, and it's apparent that she hasn't been filled in on the previous night's events yet.

"How's it going, boys?" she asks, pretending not to notice the tension in the air. Giving Sam a minute to pull himself together, Chelsea stops at Kyle's bed, her back to the Winchester's, and rouses the other man with a gentle shake of the shoulder, ignores his groans and mild cursing with a smirk on her face and another pat before she returns her attention to the patient that needs her most.

Sam sits back down in the chair, knee bouncing agitatedly, and pretends not to notice the longing look that crosses Dean's face when he looks at Sam's exaggerated movements. He tries so hard not to be overly mobile in front of Dean, tries not to make a bigger deal than necessary about that fact that he can so easily move when Dean is so still, so hindered. But right now it's hard to care, not when he's afraid his whole world is going to fall apart right in front of his eyes.

Chelsea looks back and forth between the brothers as she begins the morning routine, starting with Dean's trach, suctioning and cleaning and then attaching the speaking valve so that he's got a fair chance at communicating.

"Everything okay here?" she asks again, once he can talk. "You two are looking pretty serious, something I should know?"

"Just a stressful phone call from—a friend," Dean says. He glances at Sam, gives him a warning leer to keep his mouth shut on any additional details. Sam nods in affirmation. He certainly won't be adding anything, they both know the drill.

Chelsea just lifts her chin, mouth skewed and eyes wide, not exactly believing that she's been given all the information, but it's not her job to play shrink, and as long as Dean's physical well-being is in check she'll let everything else go for the time being.

She pulls out a washcloth and dips it in the basin of warm, soapy water she's brought in with her, and scrubs it gently over Dean's face and neck, goes slowly because she knows just how much Dean revels in the sensation. Sam watches in silence, thinking back to the night before and his fear of losing Dean, but also tries to put himself in his brother's shoes. There is a part of him that understands wholeheartedly Dean's reasons for wanting to do what he'd tried to do. As much as Sam goes back and forth with Dean, wishing it was him who'd been hurt and not Dean, he can't honestly imagine what it must be like to be locked inside his body, doesn't think he could stand the constant fear every minute that his life support might fail.

On more than one occasion as Sam has laid in bed trying to fall asleep he's closed his eyes and imagined away the feeling in his limbs, pretended that the only thing he can feel is his head, tried to discover what it must be like to be his brother. But he knows it's not the same. There is always that little part of him that is aware of the difference, the safety net that says he can pretend his body away but it's still there, ready to walk him through life again at his beckoning.

He thinks the ventilator is probably the biggest red flag, the thing that – if there was any doubt in his mind – slams home the fact that all of this is real. Sam knows what it's like to be on a ventilator, but Dean's reaction to it now is far different from how it's been in the past. Instead of fighting it and choking on it and begging to be rid of it, Dean just goes with it, accepts it. And when Sam asked one day, curious and just a tad nervous at how the question would be received, Dean told him the difference was in the necessity. _You can only fight it if your lungs are strong enough to take over_, he'd said sadly. _Mine aren't._

And that was that. It's what summed up the whole of Dean's new life; strength and capability, the lack of both. Where before determination could win out over adversity, now his brother is forced to define a line between when to fight and when to accept. And unfortunately, acceptance has become a bigger part in their lives than it has ever been before.

Dean can eat solid foods now, but he still isn't getting the sustenance he needs with just that. He's lost a lot of weight, most of it the muscle that once defined his well-maintained physique, and in place of that now is a pile of too big skin and bones. The nurses want him to bulk up some, ease the fears of bone pressing too hard onto skin and creating pressure sores like the one on his ankle, and so Chelsea pours a can of Ensure and starts it through the G-tube as she makes her way down Dean's body. He'll finish that first, then they will take him for breakfast.

Stu shows up right on schedule, just as Chelsea is finishing with Dean's sponge bath and starts pulling out a fresh outfit for him to wear. It is only as Sam sits, passively watching the two staff members carefully dress Dean in the navy blue sweatsuit and shiny white socks and shoes, that he realizes neither of them has mentioned the night before. He had sorta figured it would be big news, a patient attempting suicide, and despite the fact that he really hadn't given it much thought until now he's sorta figured it would be at the top of the conversation list. But both Chelsea and Stu are going about the morning as though it were a normal day, like his brother wasn't so ferociously depressed that he'd seen no other option than to escape the planet. And he can't figure out if he's grateful to them for not bringing it up, or frustrated that they're not scolding his brother and giving him a whole lot of grief for his thoughts.

Around the time that they're switching ventilators and transferring his brother from bed to wheelchair Sam realizes that Dean seems to have checked out. He's usually somewhat interactive with his morning routine, grousing and complaining, if nothing else. He's usually got a comment about his clothes not looking right, or the need for more separation of the spikes in his hair, the fact that he'd rather have his steel-toed boots than the Nike tennis shoes Milla picked out. But today he's doing nothing of the sort.

Instead he's just got his head resting against Chelsea's shoulder, putting forth no effort to hold it up on his own, and Sam cringes as he sees it flop backward as Stu performs the transfer. Dean hasn't been that floppy since two weeks before when a breakthrough in therapy had him relishing in the fact that he'd retrained his neck muscles to be strong enough to support his head without the brace. Now it's like he doesn't care.

Stu has taken notice, too, and the aide slaps Dean gently on the cheek as he situates him against the wheelchair's headrest. "Come on, man. Snap out of it. I need you to work with me here, bud."

But Dean doesn't respond, except to roll his eyes; just enough of a gesture to tell everyone that he's coherent, that he knows exactly what he _isn't_ doing, and that he just doesn't care.

Chelsea and Stu share a glance and then they both look to Sam, looking for information.

"It was a rough night," Sam volunteers, but nothing more. He sees Dean wince at the comment, realizes just how much of an understatement it is. "Let's just go get breakfast. He'll perk up."

---

But he doesn't perk up. Not at breakfast that morning, or lunch, or dinner. For days, Dean remains just on the border of "I don't give a damn," refusing to participate in any of his many therapy sessions, refusing to talk in discussions. He eats when food is placed near his mouth, talks only when absolutely necessary, but otherwise seems to have decided to retreat into his own little hell away from hell.

On the contrary, Sam talks all the time. He's a constant fountain of pleas and reassurances, constantly spewing promises of rainbows and silver linings and greener pastures. Not a morning goes by that Sam doesn't wake Dean with a smile, and a "thanks for being my big brother." Every evening before he falls asleep, it's "thanks for today. One more day closer to getting out of this place."

He verbalizes every thought in his head, from discussions on the house renovations to comments on the staff, makes daily observations on how much better he and Milla have been getting along – despite the fact that he's only been back to the house maybe a grand total of 5 hours in four days, and then it's only because Milla has come to relieve him long enough to take a shower and get a change of clothes.

It's a slow progression back to some semblance of normalcy; a two word answer here, a vague comment there. Dean picks his battles carefully, questioning the resolution of Sam's conversation with Bobby but otherwise maintaining a steadfast refusal to get involved in anything, having to do with him or anyone else.

That all changes four days later.

SUPERNATURAL

It's been a long day. A long week, if he really thinks about it. Draining, both physically and emotionally, and the only thing Dean can think of right now as Sam pushes him back to the room after OT while Stu follows along beside is that he just wants to be alone. He needs sleep and time to regroup, time to breathe. Ever since the suicide fiasco Sam has been watching him like a hawk, won't go home to sleep, and will only leave Dean's side if he knows someone else will be with him until Sam returns.

It's been four days, and he gets it now. He gets how much Sam's love extends, gets how their worlds intertwine, gets just how much worse if would be for Sam if Dean left him behind. But he can't make Sam see that, and until he does, until he figures out a way to get the point across, what little peace Dean had been able to get prior to that is inaccessible to him now.

He's never been so eager to have someone lift him into his bed and turn him on his side, facing away from Sam and the angsty mood and those sad little kicked puppy eyes of his. And the last thing Dean wants, needs, is exactly what is waiting for them when they return to the room.

The mail has come since they've been gone, and there is a package sitting on the table beside Dean's bed. It's a thick envelope, plain brown with red marker for the address, and it sits unopened – which is maybe the thing that catches Dean's attention most. Because Kyle is here, lying on his bed watching TV, and Dean never gets packages, which means it must be Kyle's. But then, why didn't he open it?

"Something came for you today, dude," Kyle says without looking up as they enter the room. He's trying to remain nonchalant, uninterested, but there is something about the way his eyes light up that makes it look like he's far more eager than he should be. "You finally decide to tell some of your friends you're here?" And there's the reason – Kyle's been like a dog with a bone, won't give up on the whole let your loved ones in bullshit that he's been spouting almost since the day Dean was admitted. And he's excited at the prospect that Dean might have received a get well card.

"Nope," Dean replies, squashes that line of thinking like a bug. He rolls his head on the headrest and catches Sam's eye as he raises an eyebrow, silently carrying on the conversation of _what do you think it is? I don't know. Well let's open it and see._

Sam crosses the room in two steps, picks up the envelope and turns it over several times, studying it. "No return address."

Something sinks like a stone in Dean's stomach, a sense of dread rolling over him. He can sense the agitation in Sam, too, and wonders if they're on the same page. They haven't heard anything from Adam and Lori Ann in weeks, but no one else knows what's happened to Dean. "You don't think…" Dean trails off, unable to finish the thought.

Sam shrugs, sinks to the bed as he continues to finger the lip of the envelope. Kyle and Stu have disappeared somewhere into the background, and right now the only two people in Dean's world are himself and Sam. "Should I open it?"

"Don't really have much of a choice."

A nod, a deep breath, and Sam's finger slides under the edge, ripping into the paper. His hands shake, and he doesn't even try to hide it as he dips inside and pulls out a piece of paper and a smaller envelope. The paper is just a thick piece of blue stationary, folded once, and Sam drops everything else onto his lap so that he can open it up and read it.

Dean can't help the impatience as he watches Sam read the letter silently, waits to hear what's written in it. He'd like nothing more than to reach out and rip it from Sam's hands, but instead he's forced to be still, hands splayed out on the armrest and refusing to obey command. Only the ventilator makes a sound, keeping time with its steady rhythm, in-click-out, in-click-out.

A series of changes comes over Sam's expression, first confusion and curiosity, then disgust, and finally flat out anger until Dean can't wait any longer. "Sam," he barks out as loudly as his limited air supply will allow. He has to wait for another breath, having used all of the first one in his outburst. It's worked, though. Sam breaks from his trance and looks at Dean just as he's able to say more. "Is it Adam? What's it say?"

His brother only gives a minute shake of his head, lips pursed, as he glances from Stu to Kyle and back again to Dean. Dean had actually forgotten the other two men were even in the room, but he understands immediately what Sam is trying to tell him. They only know the Reader's Digest version of what's happened to him, know that he was targeted by a sick man, know that the paralysis that plagues him was no accident. But they don't know that Adam still hunts him, don't know of reason behind the attack or the supernatural elements to it. And the less they know the better it will be for Dean.

"Stu, I need to talk with Dean alone. Is there somewhere we can go?" Sam puts on his most pitiful, pleading expression, tries to erase the fear that has come over him since reading the letter.

The aide seems a bit reluctant, and it's no wonder. Dean's well-being is his responsibility, not the contents of the package or the fact that the brother's have obviously fallen into family crisis mode. "He's been up for nearly six hours now. Dean needs rest."

"I know," Sam says. He's already off the bed, inching his way to the chair and his brother. "And I wouldn't do this if it wasn't terribly important. Please, I'll make sure he shifts his weight, and we'll come get you just as soon as we're done talking. We just…this is kind of urgent."

Stu takes another moment to think about it, uses the time to check Dean's temperature and pulse and reassure himself that his patient won't be going into autonomic dysreflexia anytime soon, before finally nodding his consent. "I'll take you to one of the conference rooms. Come on."

They make it down the hall, into an empty room, and Stu wastes no time in lowering the head of the chair and raising one side, relieving pressure on the spots Dean has been resting on for too long. And then he goes to the door, hesitates for another spilt-second. "Come get me if you need anything. And don't stay too long."  
The door hasn't even closed all the way before Dean pounces once again, trying to make himself as authoritative as possible from his strange position. "Out with it, Sam. What does the letter say?"

There was a time where just that simple command would be enough to get his brother talking, an ominous knowledge of the physical consequences that will come of keeping quiet posing a very real threat. But now, Sam knows that Dean can't actually make him do anything, and Dean braces himself for his brother's refusal to answer.

But Sam just sighs, a defeated look on his face, and pulls a chair around so that he can sit and hold the letter within Dean's sight. "They're horrible people, Dean," he says by way of explanation before he opens the stationary to reveal the words.

Lori Ann's familiar block lettering jumps out at him from the page. She has written it, but there is no doubt that the words are Adams. They're vicious and cruel, mocking, and Dean finds that he can't fight back an array of tears from falling from his stinging eyes.

DEAREST DEAN,

TRYING TO GET OUT SO SOON? SHOCKING, REALLY, THAT YOU COULD LAST SO LITTLE TIME LIVING AS I DO AFTER ALL THE SANCTIMONIOUS ENCOURAGEMENT YOU TRIED TO SPOUT AT ME. YOU CAN'T EVEN MAKE IT THREE MONTHS? TRY 3 YEARS. IT'S NOT AS EASY AS IT MIGHT LOOK, IS IT DEAN?

BUT SUICIDE IS NOT THE ANSWER, NOT FOR YOU ANYWAY. I'M WATCHING YOU, DEAN. I WILL SEE TO IT THAT YOU LIVE LIKE THIS FOR THE DURATION OF YOUR NATURAL LIFE. YEARS, DEAN. DECADES. YOU DON'T GET THE CHOICE OF TAKING THE EASY WAY OUT; NOT ON MY WATCH. IF YOU GET TO TELL ME HOW TO LIVE MY LIFE, THEN I GET TO TELL YOU HOW TO LIVE YOURS. ONLY FAIR, RIGHT?

BUT IN THE SPIRIT OF FAIRNESS, I'M WILLING TO THROW YOU A BIT OF A BONE. SO GO AHEAD AND CHECK OUT WHAT ELSE IS IN YOUR CARE PACKAGE, AND USE IT WELL. WE'LL BE IN TOUCH.

It's not so much what is said, as how it's said, and Dean feels a shiver go up the remaining portion of his spinal cord, into his skull. Just the knowledge that they're being watched, that Adam knows his whereabouts, knows about the suicide referral, and the fact that they have no clue where their tormentors are or how they're getting their information is enough to incite fear once again in him. And he's not sure, now, if he's relieved that Adam isn't planning to kill him, or if he's terrified by the alternative.

"What's in the envelope, Sam?" Dean finally asks once he's composed himself enough not to choke on the words.

Sam's hands shake as he opens it up and pulls the contents from within. There are more pictures, photos that neither one of them had known were being shot, and a post it note attached that says ADD THESE TO YOUR MEMORY BOOK. Sam immediately stuffs them back into the envelope, and Dean can't help but feel relief that he doesn't have to look at the painful reminders, not that he needs a photograph to remind him of something that he lives day in and day out.

Next is a bank slip, more money that Dean doesn't want to spend and Sam insists they have to. It's been an ongoing battle between the two of them, but once again, Dean doesn't exactly have a choice in the matter. He can protest all he wants, but if Sam wants him to use equipment paid for by Adam there is absolutely nothing Dean can do about it.

And finally, on the bottom of the pile in a ziplock bag is a folded up page of brittle paper that looks as though it's been ripped from a book. Another note is attached to this, with a message that reads THEY WON'T HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH ME ANYMORE, THANKS TO YOU. SEE IF YOU HAVE BETTER LUCK.

It's weird how the notes can seem so cordial, friendly almost, as though Adam has allowed for the prospect of other peoples' prying eyes getting a good look at the pages. But for Dean and Sam, the malice behind the words speaks loud and clear, a siren in an otherwise deathly quiet night.

When Sam pulls the page out from the bag and opens it Dean watches as his body tenses exponentially and his jaw begins to work, as though his baby brother is trying to restrain himself from destroying something. He doesn't have to wait long to find out what it is, but Sam never actually shows him the page, just tucks it back into the bag with a nervousness that isn't typical for a Winchester.

"It's the demon spell," Sam says. "The one Adam used to walk again, when we had to exorcise him."

The understanding comes as a punch to the gut for Dean, fast and out of left field. Sam wouldn't let him see the spell because his brother is actually afraid that Dean might consider using it. He can't help but feel hurt at the fact that Sam doesn't trust him anymore, not even with something they have spent their whole lives fighting against. How Sam could possibly believe that Dean would even consider taking such drastic action, risk so many others' lives just to be whole again, is unfathomable. But he doesn't have it in him to argue right now.

"I think I need to go– back to my room." Dean says, quieter than normal. He won't meet Sam's eyes, which doesn't really matter because Sam won't meet his either. But Sam opens the door, finds Stu – who hasn't gone but five feet in the time since he's left – and lets the aid take Dean back to his room while he follows slowly behind. Dean can hear Sam's feet shuffling on the floor and knows without a doubt that Sam is fully immersed in emo-mode.

They will never mention it again, the spell. Dean, because he doesn't want to talk about Sam not trusting him, and Sam, because he doesn't want to remind Dean of its existence. But the implications of the letter will live on for a good while, fulfilling the expectations that Adam has plotted out.

---

For a while after that things just aren't the same between them. Dean once again doesn't want to talk, at least not to Sam. He will speak to the staff and the doctors, for once even to his psychologists, but purposely ignores his brother in every way possible. Sam, on the other hand, finds himself at an impasse between being afraid to leave Dean alone and needing to take some time for himself to breathe. He's been there almost night and day, except when Milla comes to relieve him, and it's becoming apparent that his presence isn't doing either of them any good.

Dean takes care of that problem one day when, finally fed up, he asks his doctor to have Sam removed from the facility until further notice. And despite Sam's protests, when Tanya shows up to escort him out, he leaves like a whipped puppy, tail between his legs and head down. Tanya plays the sympathetic role the minute she gets Sam into the hallway, putting her arm around his shoulders as she leads him to the exit.

"You can't smother him, Sam. You've just got to give him time to figure things out on his own."

"But I don't know what's going to happen to him if I'm not there," Sam protests. They both know what he's referring to, but Tanya doesn't look particularly concerned.

"Dean is in good hands, I promise. He won't be able to pull anything like that off unless we want him to. Don't worry, I will call you if anything happens, but in the meantime you just go home and get some rest. Trust me, you need to be stockpiling your energy for when Dean goes home."

Sam nods, disheartened but unwilling to appear any more out of control. He gives Tanya a curt thank-you and a cursory wave as he lets himself out the glass entrance and to the car he has borrowed, once again, from Milla.

Having been forced into a leave of absence because of her PTSD, the doctor doesn't go anywhere anymore, so it's not like she's missing her car most days. She drops Sam off on Mondays when she uses the car to grocery shop, but otherwise allows him free access, showering him with excuses as to why she needs to stay home. Most days it's too oversee the construction or to get some cleaning done, once it was to clear her things out of her room (Dean's new bedroom) and set up a new room upstairs for herself. She declines Sam's help when he offers, says the work will do her good and help to clear her mind.

When Sam arrives at Milla's that afternoon he finds the doctor behind the house, ripping out weeds from her meager flower garden as though they had personally done her wrong. He doesn't say anything to her, turns back to the house as though he'd never even seen her, and ends up walking straight into the middle of absolute chaos. Sam has spent so much time at the hospital, he's missed all the demolition that's taken place in the house, and has to remind himself that it's a necessary evil for renovation.

Friendly faces look up at him, smile and call out greetings, as Sam takes in the chaos on the main floor. He recognizes most of the faces, but doesn't remember any names. And he's really not in the mood for formalities anyway.

It's only once he has made the rounds of the house that Sam realizes another reason he's spent so much time at the hospital is to avoid the reminder of the permanency of Dean's injury. Not that seeing his brother strapped, immobile in a wheelchair with a tube breathing for him from his neck says livelihood and prosperity, but it's somehow different. And seeing the changes to the house come to life is doing nothing for his emotions.

The new elevator shaft is in, having been completed quickly in order to minimize the time with a big gaping hole in the side of the house. From the inside it just looks like a closet door, and Sam stares at it for a long time, relishing in the normalcy of the structure. He finds himself dwelling in a wish that Dean could find that for himself, and for Sam.

It isn't possible, though, for Dean to look anything but fragile now. Sam has taken note of that in the past few nights, when he'd find he was unable to sleep. Kyle's injury occurred only two vertebrae below Dean's – a factor of two, maybe three inches. But the differences between the two are staggering.

Where Kyle can breathe on his own, talk without mechanical assistance, move his wheelchair, Dean relies on the all too visible reminder of tubing and machinery. In sleep, Dean never moves, his bony body remaining frozen in position on the pillows the nurses have arranged around him. On more than one occasion Sam has found the emotion overwhelming when the nurses come in the middle of the night and turn him to the other side, Dean barely waking as they manipulate a body that can no longer feel their ministrations.

Kyle doesn't get that care. He does everything himself, waking to a quiet alarm and rearranging himself with spastic limbs that Sam envies for Dean. It doesn't matter the noticeable struggle Kyle has, his arms strong but his hands and fingers impossible and unresponsive. Sam would give anything for Dean to have that – to have more than he has now.

Sam envies the way that Kyle's injury isn't quite so noticeable, the way the sleek manual wheelchair is so much less obtrusive by comparison to the beast of a chair Dean uses, the way it takes so much less planning to prepare Kyle for the day than it does Dean, the way no one has to fear for Kyle's life every minute of every day because he's not being kept alive by a machine that breathes for him. Kyle _can_ be left alone. Dean can't.

_Thank God for the nurses_, Sam thinks. Because suddenly he's realizing that rehab is the only time Dean can kick Sam out and be safe. When he comes home – to Milla's – that will all be over. No more chances to send Sam away in anger. Sam wonders if Dean has realized that, wonders if Dean is aware that he's about to discover what it _really _means for them to live out of each others pockets. Maybe that's why he insisted on sending Sam away.

After awhile Sam breaks from the door, but doesn't tour the rest of the house either. He's seen enough for the day, and he's really not eager to find out what sort of thoughts he'll prompt by looking in the bedroom.

Sam's stomach growls just then, reminding him that it's been ages since he's had anything of substance to eat. He makes a detour to the kitchen where he reheats some leftover soup in the microwave and carefully carries the bowl upstairs to his bedroom.

Milla had told him she rarely used the room. Until moving upstairs herself she'd barely spent any time upstairs period. And the emptiness of the space confirmed the revelation. It was a small room to begin with, just barely big enough for the twin bed and dresser she had set up in there, but for Sam it was plenty. The closeness of the walls actually helped to make him feel secure where, on contrast, he knows Dean would be feeling claustrophobic. His brother has never done well in tight spaces, and Sam supposes that was maybe why he'd been so comfortable with life on the open road. Of course, all that is behind them as well.

Slurping up a spoonful of soup, Sam begins studying the barren walls, seeking out imperfections and flaws in an effort to push thoughts of Dean out of his mind. He would drive himself crazy constantly thinking about his brother when there was absolutely nothing he could do about the present situation. If Dean wants him out he will give him that.

Time passed surprisingly quickly. Sam didn't remember hearing the work crew pack up for the day, or the sounds of Milla preparing for bed. At some point he must have stripped down to his boxers and fallen asleep, but he doesn't remember doing that either. Only knows that when he sleeps he dreams, and when he dreams things become much clearer.

---

"Son of a bitch! That little bastard." It's nearly three in the morning when Sam sits bolt upright in bed, realization dawning on his sleep addled mind. It had taken him forever to fall asleep, his brain grinding away as he considered the implications of Dean having him kicked out earlier in the day. Something didn't seem right, besides the obvious, and in dreams it's finally kicked in.

"It was a test," he mumbles to himself as he jumps out of bed and feels around in the dark for the pair of jeans he'd taken off earlier. "He wanted to see if I would really leave…and I did. Damnit!"

Now dressed, Sam stumbles down the stairs. His hand is on the doorknob when he realizes there is a light on in the den.

"Where are you headed this late?" comes a soft voice from inside, not scolding, just curious.

Nevertheless, Sam freezes like he's just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He turns slowly and walks towards the door to the den until he can see Milla. She's sitting on the couch, legs pulled up beside her, and she's got a book in her shaking hands.

"I need to see Dean."

"Thought he'd had you kicked out for a few days," she says, once again with no accusation in her voice.

Sam shrugs, and can't help the cloud that crosses his face at the thought. "He did. But he didn't mean it."

Milla raises an eyebrow. "He didn't?"

"I mean – I thought he did, at first," Sam explains, "But then I realized he's just testing me." At Milla's look of confusion Sam sighs, realizing things will go much smoother if the woman is on his side. Besides, he doesn't have the car keys, and with her actually watching him he can't exactly take off in her car without getting permission.

The last time they'd talked Sam had been overwhelmingly surprised at how much better he felt afterward, impressed at the idea that she was actually rational and considerate, that she genuinely seemed to care how their lives ended up.

"Remember when I said we got another letter from Adam the other day?"

Milla nods, but doesn't press him for information.

"Well, in it he made another comment about how it's only a matter of time before I walk out on Dean. Bastard keeps trying to plant these ideas in Dean's head that I can't deal with the injury, that he made the wrong choice and now I'm going to leave him because of it."

"Dean can't possibly believe that," Milla protests behind a little gasp of surprise. "I barely know the two of you and I don't doubt your love for him."

"I know, but he's not exactly thinking straight these days. And it's always been his biggest fear – to be left alone. And I didn't exactly do anything to convince him otherwise today."

"You can't blame yourself for that, Sam. Dean had you physically removed from the facility. What were you supposed to do, pick a fight with the staff? Start throwing punches?"

Sam shrugs. "I don't know. All I know is that he was testing me to see if I would actually go, and I did. I just proved Adam right."

"Sam—"

"No, don't. In Dean's eyes I left him, and I have to get back there and try to convince him otherwise."

"They're not going to let you in tonight, Sam. Think about it. You show up there at three in the morning, half crazed out of your mind, they're more likely to have you committed than let you in to see your brother. Why don't you call instead. He's probably sleeping anyway."

As much as Sam wants to do exactly what Milla is advising against, once again he can see the rationality in her words. She's already got the phone out of its cradle, pushing it towards him. Sam takes the unit, dials the number from memory, and asks to be patched back to the night nurse on duty for Dean's unit.

Mona answers, clear bewilderment in her voice at the late hour of the phone call.

"Mona, it's Sam. Listen, I know it's late, but I couldn't sleep and I just wanted to check on my brother. Is he…" He's not quite sure how to finish that question, because he doesn't really know what it is that he wants to find out.

Mona sighs softly. "Oh, Sam. Dean had a rough night tonight. He was being very stubborn – we couldn't get him to eat so he's been on feeding supplements all night to replace what he didn't get at dinner. And he's been verbally abusive to the staff. I actually had to threaten to take out the speaking valve if he couldn't say anything nice – you know how much I hate to make threats like that. I heard he had you thrown out today."

Sam nods, and then realizes she can't see him doing so. "Yeah, he did. That's actually why I'm calling – I realized why he did that, and I wanted to check on him. See if I could convince him to let me back in."

"Well he's finally asleep, Sam. But I'll tell you what… My shift if over at 8am tomorrow morning. You get yourself in here just before that and I will see what I can do to get Dean to talk with you.

For a moment Sam says nothing, virtually tongue-tied at the nurse's generosity. He's not used to people trying to help him, even now in the wake of so many caring individuals stepping up for Dean, and his immediate reaction is to wonder what the catch is. It's all he can do to keep his mouth shut.

"Thank you," he finally stammers out.

"No problem hon. Last thing I want to see is your brother pushing all his lifeline's away. He doesn't have many to begin with."

_Ain't that the truth_, Sam thinks as he hangs up the phone and sinks down into the chair across from Milla. He takes another look at the time, three fourteen am, and lets out a heavy sigh. "He's asleep right now. But Mona's gonna try and get me in before she's off duty tomorrow morning," he tells the woman.

"Good. That's good." She finally closes her book, but continues to hold onto it, the pressure around the cover keeping the trembles in her hands at bay. "Maybe you should try to get some sleep now too."

Sam shakes his head. "Can't sleep. Too wound up."

"So what are you going to do?"

"No clue," Sam throws up his hands. But he stops them abruptly halfway up, quickly drops them back down as an idea comes to him. Suddenly he's feeling unsure of himself once again, but he finds himself compelled to pursue it, determined to right a wrong he's quickly realizing was made.

"Your hands have been trembling an awful lot lately," he states, matter-of-factly.

Milla pulls them closer to her body self-consciously, eyes flicking down across the betraying appendages. "I'm fine. It's nothing."

"I don't think it is. Are you seeing anyone about it?"

"I've been seeing a therapist. She knows about it – says it's PTSD from the abduction. Says I need to be more open about what happened."

"And you don't believe her?" Sam asks, skeptically.

Milla bites her lip, apprehension clear in her reaction. "I _believe_ her," she clarifies, "Just don't know what it is I'm supposed to tell her. How do I make her understand where this fear is coming from when there's no way she'll believe what really happened at that school. I can't talk about everything or she'll have me committed on top of everything else."

"Welcome to my world," Sam mutters under his breath.

"What?"

Sam smiles, understanding. "My whole life was about keeping the fairytales and the lore under wraps. We weren't allowed to talk to anyone about what we knew, what we'd done, what we'd seen. It was all about keeping the rest of the world protected."

"That must have been so hard on you boys, especially when you were younger. So what did you do?"

"My dad wasn't much of a coddler, but I had Dean to talk to. Mostly, though, we just kinda pushed everything out of our minds. Tried to live in the moment. It was easier if we didn't think about it."

"But that's all I do is think about it. I don't know how you did it, Sam."

Sam just shrugs and shakes his head. "I think it's easier when that's the only thing you know. See you – you've known better times. You've known a time when monsters were just fairy tales. But Dean and I never really knew that. He was four years old when the demon killed our mother, and Dad was on a vengeance path ever since."

"I guess that makes sense."

"You know you can talk to me about it," Sam offers, finding that the offer rolls off his tongue a lot easier that he expected it to. "I know I haven't exactly been the most forgiving of people, but I think you've proven yourself to me enough. And I'm sorry for treating you like I did. I was just…angry. Ya know? I mean, at Dean's situation. And I needed someone nearby to blame, since Adam and Lori Ann disappeared on us. You were just…convenient. I'm sorry."

"Sam, no one can blame me as much as I blame myself. Every time I look at Dean I find myself wondering if maybe I could have fought harder, resisted more. There are a million what ifs that go through my head. I'm constantly trying to figure out what I could have done to stop these events from happening.

"There's nothing you could have done," Sam reassures her. "Dean knows that, and so do I. Adam's power over you was too strong. And besides, Dean made a choice. He could have saved himself from this mess."

"At the cost of your life. I know I don't know you boys all that well yet, but if there is one thing I don't doubt it's the love you share for each other. Dean wouldn't have let you die – I'm certain of that."

"I know that," Sam sighs. "And I'd do the same for him. But it's hard knowing I'm up and walking around because of what he did for me. It's hard to see the sacrifice he made just so I could live. For someone like us it's a much greater payout than death."

"Is that why he tried to contact that guy?"

Sam nods. "We've prepared ourselves to die. But being disabled for the rest of his life wasn't in the plans."

"I can't imagine living that life," Milla shudders. "To be so ready to die, constantly."

"You get used to it." A shrug.

They sit in silence for a moment, then Milla breaks it with a humorless laugh. "I think you and I have more in common that we think. And on top of the list is the fact that we're both convinced Dean's injury is our fault."

"Guess we're both doomed." Sam gives her a sour look. Sighing, he runs a hand through his hair and leans back against the couch.

"What are you going to say to him?" Milla finally asks.

Another shrug, and Sam realizes he's been doing that a lot lately. "Doesn't matter what I plan, it's all gonna take on a life of its own when I start talking. Hopefully something will get through to him."

"Do you really think this was just a test to see if you would leave?"

"Yeah. No doubt."

"But why?"

"Because it's one of the few things he _can_ control right now. Because people have left him behind his entire life and he's convinced it's going to happen again. And he'd rather it happen on his terms."

"That's just dumb."

Sam can't help but laugh at that one. Because it's such a simplistic way to sum up the fucked up complication of their lives. It's always been one giant, tangled mass of understanding and miscommunication, starting from before Sam was even old enough to speak and progressing to him leaving for college. Even after he'd returned there were secrets and lies and half-truths, all under the guise of protecting one another. But in the end the only thing that truly did any good was honesty. And that's what Sam hopes to convey when he gets in to see Dean.

---

It's early, but for some reason Kyle is already gone when Mona sneaks Sam into Dean's room that morning. He doesn't question it, though, just accepts the privacy and treads lightly across the floor to where his brother is propped up on his side in bed, back to the door.

"Dean," Sam says hesitantly, quietly. He waits for a response, and when he doesn't get one he circles the bed so that he's facing his brother.

Dean's got his eyes squeezed shut, trying too hard to appear as though he's asleep, and Sam lets out a low sigh and drops his hand to his brother's cheek, rubbing the thumb against the coarse growth of beard from the night before.

"Fine, don't talk to me. But I know you're awake and I'm gonna talk. So just listen."

Sam watches Dean's nostrils flare, knowing it's a sign to choose his words carefully.

"Look, man, you and I? We're not communicating well. You're trying to make decisions about my life without consulting me first, and I know I've been doing the same thing to you a lot. We used to do better, ya know?"

Dean doesn't respond, despite the lengthy pause Sam creates in hope of some sort of acknowledgement. But he doesn't let it bother him – just forges on.

"So here's the deal, man. From now on, you and I are gonna consult each other on _everything_ before making any drastic decisions. And I'll start."

Glancing down, Sam sees Dean scrunch his eyes tighter as he shifts his head minutely across the pillow towards Sam's hand and the gentle touch of his thumb. Sam smiles, and increases the speed to which he's stroking Dean's cheek.

"I've been selfish," Sam begins, taking a huge breath to prepare himself for what he's about to say. "This whole thing, the whole time, I've been making everything about me. I never actually stopped to think about how horrible it must be for you, to be so…dependant. I mean, you must be going out of your mind, man. So…I've been thinking…and if you want a way out I'll help you." He says the last in a rush of breath that jumbles all the words together, and then he takes a deep breath and holds it, refusing to continue until Dean says something. And hoping that Dean doesn't actually go for the offer, because Sam doesn't know what he'd do if Dean said yes, that he still wanted out.

Apparently the revelation has been enough to bring Dean out of his self-induced shell. His eyes pop open in disbelief, and for several seconds his mouth works like a fish out of water before he finally manages to make his voice match the timing of the air going through his speaking valve.

"Sam, that's not what I want." He says it so quietly, Sam almost isn't sure he's heard the right words. He's too afraid to believe his ears.

"It's not?" he asks finally.

"No. At least, I don't think it is. I mean…"

Sam raises an eyebrow.

"I want to live, I just…it's hard-- to live like this. I need more time-- to come to terms with everything."

"But just last week—"

"I know what happened last week—. And I can't promise I won't—think it again. But I've—realized that I'm not mad you—rushed in there when you did. –I'm glad you stopped me."

Sam doesn't bother to remind Dean that he would have been stopped regardless, instead simply stammers out "you are?"

"I think I'm just afraid to—be left alone. This can't—be easy for you, either."

"Doesn't matter, Dean. There's no where I would rather be, no matter how tough this is. I've got your back – just as you had mine."

Dean smirks, reverting to his usual ploy of brushing off the chick flick moments. "That's beautiful, Sam. You ever consider a job with Hallmark?"

Swatting lovingly at Dean's shoulder, Sam huffs. But then gets serious. "Dean, really, I'm not going anywhere. Ever. And you need to stop trying to push me away first. That stunt you pulled the other day was not cool."

"I needed some space," Dean argues, never one to admit his own mistakes when he can help it. "You were smothering me."

Sam just rolls his eyes, shoots a look of disbelief his brother's way. "Yeah, whatever dude. Just try telling me that next time. Things will go a whole lot smoother for the both of us if you don't actually try to get me thrown out of here every other day."

A grin. "Yeah, I guess that was a bit extreme."

"Ya think?"

"I just…didn't know what else to do."

"Well you're gonna have to figure out something else, because I'm not putting up with this crap again. You got me?"

This time Dean just nods, resigned to obey.

"And another thing," Sam adds, ignoring his brother's eye roll. "When you get out of here you'll be under _my _care. That means I have to learn what to do. No more of this kicking me out of the room for the dirty stuff – I know it sucks, man, but you've got to get over your hold ups and let me learn."

"Sammy, no," Dean pleads. It practically breaks Sam's heart to witness the desperation written all across his brother's face. But Sam holds his ground, staying silent as he lets Dean work through the agony of the decision at hand without pressure. Eventually resolve replaces the angst and Dean quietly agrees.

"I know this doesn't mean much, but for what it's worth I'm sorry it has to be this way. I promise I'll be sensitive."

---

When Chelsea comes ten minutes later to start the morning routine, Sam is every bit the eager student as he shadows the young nurse, but he's reserved, professional, as he makes every effort to put Dean's mind at ease. She covers every detail of the process; from hand washing to gloving up, checking and changing the catheter and suctioning the trach, flushing out and connecting the g-tube. She shows Sam how to check for pressure sores and the right (and wrong) way to move limbs so as not to risk breaking bones or spraining tendons. They go over the right way to apply pressure bandages and the reasoning behind the wrist and ankle braces.

Much of it is stuff they've already explained before, but Chelsea makes sure to go in depth this time, now that Sam is actually taking part in the process rather than just being a bystander.

And through it all, Dean can't help but feel like some fucked up version of a science experiment gone wrong. Anatomy lab, and he's the cadaver. Except he's not dead yet. Not his mind, at least.

Sam asks question after question, constantly afraid of messing up, of doing something that might hurt Dean instead of help. But through it all Chelsea's voice is quiet and calm, soothing as she reassures him that Dean isn't as fragile as the directives and precautions make him out to be.

Dean tries to keep a brave face. Indifferent. Tries to make it ok that his little brother is handling him as a _thing_, handling him period. Because in twenty-seven years Dean had never thought it would come to this. Never in a million years did he expect that his baby brother would be caring for him like an infant.

Eventually they've got him washed and dressed, the finer details taken care of, and it's time for morning PT. Stu arrives just in time for the transfer, but Chelsea quickly fills the aide in on Sam's new role in his care. And suddenly Dean finds himself not only an unwilling lab rat, but he also finds himself dropped into his usual big brother role. Except this time he's not sure this is something he can do.

Sam is nervous. Scared as hell is maybe a better term for it.

Dean knows that Sam has had some practice in the caregivers class, but only with a sand-filled dummy. But Dean is a different story, a whole different liability, and that fact registers like a neon sign flashing across Sam's face.

So the minute Chelsea suggested to Stu that they talk Sam through transferring Dean his brother has thrown out every excuse in the book why he shouldn't. And as much as Dean would rather agree, would prefer his brother not to be the one picking him up like a baby, he also knows Sam's arguments are completely and utterly unfounded. He's spouting nonsense about possibly dropping Dean or knocking out the vent hose, breaking something. Any of which could happen, but not with Sam at the helm. His brother is, if nothing else, meticulous to a tee and there is absolutely no way Sam would be so careless as to allow any harm come to him.

"Just do it, Sammy. I trust you." The words are hard to push out, but Dean stands by them.

"Dean, there are too many things that can go wrong. I can't—"

"You have to, Sam. You said—it yourself. You've got to—learn."

"Yeah, but maybe I'm taking things on too quickly. I mean look at everything I've already done today. Maybe this should wait another day. Or two."

"No Sam. Today." Dean glares at his little brother, hating Sam for making him have to be the strength in this, because he doesn't want to reassure him. He doesn't want to be the one telling Sam it's alright that he take a chance. He doesn't ever want Sam having to touch him in this way.

Sam finally nods, nervously, and looks to Stu for guidance.

In the past it's taken two of them, one to do the transfer and one for guidance of his wasted limbs. But lately, now that Dean can hold his head up on his own, Stu has been doing all the work himself. This time Chelsea crawls back onto the bed again, prepared to be support and guidance if necessary.

Dean sees Sam visibly relax at the backup.

Stu talks Sam through it step by step. Has him place Dean's legs over the edge of the bed, his feet nearly touching the floor. Has him prop Dean with pillows behind his back so that he's mostly sitting up and in an accessible position for Sam to lift him. They check to make sure the hose has a clear path, make sure Dean himself has a clear path, and that the wheelchair is properly aligned. It is amazing how much thought and preparation has to go into every single motion, every step. One miscalculation and the whole thing could go to pot.

When Stu gives the go ahead Sam bends down and slips his arms under Dean's armpits, grasping them together at his back and hugging him close. On a three count Sam heaves upward and swings him into the chair like he's been doing it his whole life. And then lets out a slow exhale that is the only sign he'd been nervous.

Dean forces a smile, a good job, but can't bring himself to say the words. He just hopes its enough.

Sam's confidence seems to increase by leaps and bounds from there. He straps Dean in and swaps out the hoses expertly, smoothes out the wrinkles in his clothes, and does a thorough once over to make sure everything is in place before nodding to Stu and Chelsea that he's all set to go.

Lanie is waiting for them in therapy, and apparently she's got some sort of surprise.

---

After delivering Dean to therapy Sam excuses himself for a few minutes to get a drink, take a bathroom break, have some time alone. He's suddenly found himself overwhelmed with everything, just needing to get away before he loses his composure in front of Dean. Because the effects of that would be far too detrimental to their healing to risk. So he goes off, takes some time for himself, and then forces himself back to watch before anyone becomes suspicious.

The thing that kills Sam the most is seeing Dean in therapy. Because Dean's therapy isn't what it is for everyone else. It's not about regaining motor control or improving dexterity. It's not even about maintaining muscle function for the day he _can_ improve. For Dean, the only thing therapy really does is keep his limbs from turning inward and stiff, keeps his body flexible so that it's easier for his caregivers to move him. And it sucks, big time, that so much is being asked of him when the let down on the other end is so fucking huge!

They're in a big room with at least ten other patients at any given time, and every single one of them is in a better position than his brother. He scans the room, taking note of who else is there right then, and fights back his anger at the injustice of the situation as he does so.

Cindy, two doors down from Dean, is working on shoulder control. And Mike, across the hall, is learning to use the utensil holder on his right hand so he can hold a pencil. Lauren's on the hand cycle, strengthening muscles and learning control. They've got Henry catching and throwing balls, and nine-year-old Violet is up shuffling along in her walker like she hadn't been in a serious car accident just six weeks previously.

For weeks Sam has sat along the back wall and watched patients improve, seen them get better and check out, witnessed their ecstasy at breaching a milestone in their recovery. But he hasn't gotten to share any of that with Dean. There have been no milestones, no miraculous recoveries, and checking out of this place isn't about getting better. It's about making sure that Sam is ready to care for his brother, that Dean is emotionally ready to be released to the outside world.

Dean's improvements have come only in the form of technological advancement; not physical. Yeah, he can talk now, but he's still on the vent. He's learning to use his mouth to control machines that run the bed and the pager for his nurses, will soon have a wheelchair that he can control with a straw, but he's still stuck in the damn thing. For Dean there will be no learning to feed himself or write or comb his hair, there's no need to strengthen muscle, no need for control, no chance at throwing a ball around. Where Dean is at right now is pretty much where he will stay. And to say that doesn't suck would be a lie.

Sam can't even bring himself to try to be positive anymore. He's sick of it; sick of plastering on fake smiles and forcing cheer into his voice as he encourages his brother to make a go of things for just one more day, one more hour, one more minute. He just doesn't have the energy left – not after Dean's little suicide stunt.

He's sitting in a folding chair just inside the door, staring at his hands and trying not to appear too lost, looks up just in time to see Lanie wave him over from across the room. Sam gives a tired nod and pushes himself up, dragging heavy limbs across the floor to where Lanie's got Dean strapped into some new device that looks more like a medieval torture trap than therapy equipment. Dean doesn't make eye contact with Sam as he strides up beside them. He seems a bit nervous, chewing on his bottom lip as he's taken to doing a lot lately.

"Thought you might like to be here for this, Sam," the petite therapist chirps, bouncing around like she's got a million things to do and only a few minutes to do them in.

Sam raises an eyebrow but says nothing, and Lanie forges on without waiting for more.

"Dean's been doing well with sitting upright for long periods of time. We haven't had a bout of autonomic dysreflexia in nearly three weeks now, and I want to try something new."

"OK. What kind of new?" Sam can't hide his skepticism, thoroughly aware that there isn't much Dean _can_ do. Sitting up, strapped tightly into the wheelchair is about it as far as Sam can tell. He eyes the equipment that Dean is on warily, taking in the narrow, padded table and the board sticking up from the bottom of it where Dean's feet are resting flush against it. Thick black straps like the ones that secure him in his wheelchair stretch across his chest (just under his armpits), his thighs and ankles. Sam can't even begin to imagine their purpose.

There is a twinkle in her eye as Lanie circles around to the side of the table she's got Dean strapped into and picks up a remote control. "You'll see," she says, mysteriously. "Ready Dean?"

Dean swallows, waits for the exhale of air. "Let's try it," he says on the whispery breath that has become his new voice. Sam flinches everytime he hears it, feeling a punch to the gut just as strongly as if someone had physically hit him.

There is the whir of gears that seeks to drown out the hum of Dean's ventilator, and suddenly Dean and the table he is laying on begin to move, slowly tilting from horizontal position to angle up. She brings the movement to a stop when Dean is laying at a 45 degree slant and starts messing with him, asking how he's feeling and tugging on the straps that keep him from falling.

Once she is reassured that Dean is okay, she proceeds and the table springs to life again. It takes to this point for Sam to truly realize what is happening here, and his face lights up with a giant grin. Within seconds Dean is nearly vertical, standing eye to eye with Sam, and it's the first time they've stood side by side in months.

"You're taller than I remember," Sam jokes. There is something about being face to face with his brother that suddenly puts a lot of things into perspective. Suddenly Sam feels like, once again, they're on the same level, and he finally feels himself relax just a bit.

"Don't know how you can-- tell," Dean scoffs. "What with your head so—high up in the clouds. –Sasquach."

Sam laughs, and it feels good. He realizes it's been probably as long since he's laughed as it has been since he's seen Dean standing, and it doesn't escape his notice that the two, once again, seem to go hand in hand. That Dean in that chair, right now, seems to automatically make the world a darker place, but to see him up makes the world light again.

It's not the same. And god knows, it never will be again. He knows he will never be able to look at Dean again without seeing the the equipment that allows him to continue living. But something about this standing table has made most of that disappear into the background. He doesn't see the straps or the hose or the lack of motion in Dean's limbs. All he sees is his brother, all he hears is the banter that they so rarely engage in anymore.

Less than five minutes later Dean's blood pressure rises and Lanie has to lower him down before it becomes a serious issue. But the significance of the opportunity sticks with Sam, and Dean too, and Lanie's reassurance that there will be more chances has both of them reaching out and grabbing onto the idea of future opportunities like a lifeline.

It's odd, Sam thinks as they head back to the room to lie down, how sometimes the most insignificant things, the things most people take for granted most days, can make such a big difference. Who would have ever thought that the boys would be taking so much stock in something as simple as standing eye to eye.


	8. Chapter 8

The final month in rehab is marked with new equipment and preparations for Dean's homecoming. They've told him all along that there isn't much they can do for him recovery-wise. He has pretty much hit the mark of what he will regain – movement and strength in his neck, ability to talk with the speaking valve, sitting up in the wheelchair for large chunks of the day.

Everything else – movement and independence and getting back to his old life – is all out of his reach.

Lanie keeps telling him not to give up hope, that anything and everything is possible in the future. But she means the scientific future, one in which spinal cords can regenerate and atrophied muscles can be brought back to life. In the foreseeable future, assuming medical knowledge remains the same, Dean has hit his limit.

Now it's not a factor of improvement but learning to live what he has left. Independence has taken on a new definition, one that isn't characterized by strength and capability, is now characterized by his ability to utilize technology and the amount of money they can spend on it. With the right resources he will be able to open doors and control the television, the stereo, the thermostat. He can use a computer and the phone, open blinds in his room and turn off the lights when he's ready for bed. As long as he's got his voice all of this is possible. But it's not ideal, and he can only be so excited about it.

The new wheelchair arrives on a Monday, and comes with a slew of representatives from the company to help adjust the settings to fit his needs. Sam is there, and Milla, Lanie and Chelsea and Stu and Justin. Everyone has an opinion, specifications go flying left and right around the room even as they are lifting him from the bed into the shiny black chair.

One of the representatives goes over the details, eagerly explaining the "revolutionary" gel cushion he's sitting on and the one at his back, designed to reduce pressure sores by sixty percent. The arm and hand rests have a similar design, and the wrist straps, he explains, are made of fleece and softened leather that won't irritate sensitive skin. Dean has never thought of himself as having sensitive skin before; he's familiar with the calluses and sun-toughened skin that were par for the course for his past life.

The battery is designed to run non-stop for twelve hours, which means that sitting idle will lengthen its life. And it can be recharged up to two hundred times before needing to be replaced. Although two hundred days seems like a lifetime to deal with, and Dean finds he can't imagine making it that long.

The sense of freedom Justin has assured Dean will come with the receipt of his new wheelchair isn't there. Instead he feels more trapped than ever as the permanence of his situation finally settles deep into the pit of his stomach. He forces himself to go through the motions of interest, though, for Sam's sake if no one else's. Because his brother has been nothing if not relentless these last few weeks, trying his damndest to make everything okay, to make life worth living. And he's got such a huge, goofy grin plastered onto his face, that isn't entirely fake, as he soaks up the information like the big nerd he is.

So Dean dutifully tries to pay attention, and he responds at all the appropriate questions. But he can't help but roll his eyes when the reps keep asking him if that "feels all right?" as they adjust the location of the arm and foot rests and the natural tilt of the chair. The only thing he's able to feel is the cool leather of the head rest as he turns to lay his temple against it, closing his eyes against the headache that's beginning to pound inside from all the fuss.

The adjustments take forever, and it's well past lunch when the group disbands to give Dean a break. That afternoon Justin plans to show Dean the ins and outs of the sip 'n puff controller on the new chair, but in the interim Sam pushes him down to the cafeteria to beg for some reheated lunch.

"Well, you've got yourself some wheels again," Sam says, more to make conversation than anything else.

Dean grunts a barely intelligible reply then stops and thinks.

"Where's my car?"

It's not the first time he's thought about the Impala, but it's certainly the first time it's occurred to him that Sam isn't driving it. He remembers the accident, fumbling to get out of the car only to have Lori Ann stick him with something and lug him up the hill to the top. All this time he'd figured the car had just needed to be towed off the hill, but he'd never really gotten a good look at it.

He's honestly got no idea what actually happened that day after Lori Ann got him into her van.

Dean is very aware of the fact that Sam is stalling as he quietly accepts the food he's handed and walks it to a nearby table before returning for him. Dean waits until the chair is settled beside the table and Sam is sitting facing him before he asks it again.

"Where's my car, Sam?" he demands.

Sam stuffs a mouthful of luke-warm baked ziti in his mouth before answering. "I didn't think you'd want it as a reminder."

Forced to chew the food and swallow it before he can safely talk, Dean has plenty of time to consider the implications of Sam's response.

"As a reminder of what?"

Sam shrugs, looks away. "Don't make me say it, Dean."

"Sam…"

"You know you'll never drive it again, right?" Actual tears are glistening in the corner of Sam's eyes when he looks up, still unable to meet Dean's gaze. "Probably never even ride in it. I didn't think…"

"Do you know where my car is?" Dean asks, unable to confirm Sam's statement. It doesn't matter if he'll drive the car again – it's still _his_ car.

"Yeah."

"And can you get it back?"

"I guess."

"You guess?"

Sam puts another forkful of ziti in Dean's mouth. "It needs work. I can't really drive it anywhere."

He's starting to notice a pattern here with the food, one that Dean really needs to put a stop to quickly. But right now he's got more important things to worry about, and as soon as he's swallowed Dean snaps. "What's wrong with the car?"

Shrugging, Sam looks away. "I don't know much about cars, Dean. Something with the engine block or something, I don't know. Guy just said the car can't be driven, and that it'll cost more to fix than it's worth."

"Oh." Dean bites his lip, once again feeling completely powerless. They don't have the money to fix the car, and he's never really trusted anyone else to touch it anyway.

"We could send it up to Bobby—"

"No!" Dean snaps with as much power as he can muster. "He'll ask too many questions." First of which is why Dean isn't he fixing it himself.

Sam's shoulders fall, and it's obvious that his little brother hasn't really put a whole lot of thought into the car at all these past few months. But it's just as obvious that this conversation is making him feel pretty awful about that fact.

Dean just doesn't really know what the answer is anymore, isn't really sure how to solve the problem of fixing a car that he'll never use again. Or for that matter, how to justify the necessity in it being fixed in the first place.

"I'll figure something out," Sam says, unwilling to give up now that Dean has brought it up. Clearly Dean's underestimated him, because Sam obviously understands just how much it is worth to Dean even when he, himself, doesn't.

Pursing his lips and nodding, Dean allows that to be the end of the discussion. He doesn't like to be helpless, doesn't like the constant reminders that he is. And just like with most other things in his life these days he finds that it's easier not to dwell on them when he is powerless to change the outcome. It does no good to argue with Sam when it's clear that his baby brother is already beating himself up about the oversight. Instead, Dean just opens his mouth again and accepts another bite of food.

He eats the rest of his lunch in silence, robotically accepting bite after bite from his brother who is seemingly lost in space himself.

When Justin comes to find them later the whole discussion is forgotten in lieu of more mindless topics, most importantly the picture of Miss July and her most notable features in the swimsuit calendar Sam had gotten him.

* * *

It has always amazed Sam at the genuine eagerness and enthusiasm the staff all seem to possess constantly, despite the depressing state of most of their patients. When Justin finds them that afternoon he's got a wide grin spread across his face and a sparkle in his eye.

"Dean, m'man," he says, rubbing his hands together. "We've got to get you mobile. 'bout time you learn to do it yourself. You ready?"

Sam is able to detect the slight hint of apprehension in his brother's reaction, but he is also pleased to see him nod his consent as Justin reaches for the handles on the wheelchair and pushes Dean out the door. Sam follows them to the therapy room.

He's got a pretty good idea of what is going to happen. Dean already uses a sip 'n puff on the bed to raise and lower the head and to call the nurses, so it's not really new. But he also knows that the controls on the wheelchair require more precision, and more breath control. Two reasons why they didn't start teaching this until now.

Justin shows Dean a chart with arrows and instructions on it and explains to him how a combination of sips and puffs on the straw can make his chair move in every direction and in a variety of speeds. They spend a good ten minutes going over the finer details of a light sip versus a heavy sip, and two puffs versus one, and then Justin stands back and lets Dean go at it.

Blowing into the straw too hard, Dean immediately starts with a jolt and ends up running into a wall. And Sam can't help but laugh as he realizes his brother's former natural grace apparently doesn't extend to wheelchairs.

"Yeah, laugh now," Dean grumbles as Justin manually turns the chair so that Dean is once again facing the center of the room. "But just wait until I get the hang of this. I'll be gunning for you." He smirks, a twinkle in his eye, and Sam can't help but let out a sigh of relief that he has somehow managed to come into this with a good mood. It's a rarity, and especially coming off their earlier conversation about the car.

"Bring it on, cowboy," Sam challenges. He crouches down, arms out and fingers gesturing in a 'come on' kind of way.

Dean rolls his eyes, looks back to Justin with an air of determination. "So gentler, huh?"

"Nice and easy. It's just like a gas pedal, the harder you blow the faster you go."

Dean rolls his eyes, waggles an eyebrow suggestively at Sam although he withholds the sexual comment that is clearly running through his mind. But at Sam's mock disgust Dean knows his little brother understands what he's getting at and he can't help but smirk at Sam's prudishness.

The next try is much more successful, has Dean moving forward in a gentle motion. And within minutes he's mastered a left turn and two rights, and is in the process of learning to back up. By the time the session is over he's got the commands mastered, and for the first time ever takes himself back to his room with Sam and Justin trailing behind.

Sam teases him because he's not exactly moving in a straight line, says he looks drunk and jokes about giving him a breathalyzer, threatens to turn him in for steering while under the influence. And Dean can't help the twinkle in his eye because he's missed this.

Yeah, he knows a lot of the tension is his fault. Or, maybe not _his_ fault per se, but the fault of human nature and the depression that comes of devastating life-changing events.

And he knows the tough times are far from over, knows there will be days that he doesn't want to get out of bed. There will be days that he can't remember who he is, who he used to be, days when he can't remember why he hasn't checked out of this life completely.

But then he will remember today, and the little bit of a silver lining that has shown itself in this afternoon. The fact that good times are possible.

They haven't laughed in ages. Today they shared something special, something lighthearted.

And it can only improve in the future.

---

At this point, though, Dean has been awake for hours. He's been riding an emotional high, but as they arrive at the room he realizes just how exhausted he is. Sleep is definitely on the agenda for the next few hours. Who knows, he might just sleep through dinner – at least one good thing about the capability for tube feeding.

Not that anything about his situation is wonderful, but he does have to smile as he suddenly remembers a conversation he'd had years ago with Sam and their father.

_It was one of their rare days of downtime. No one was sick or injured. They were just between jobs and hadn't found anything new that screamed supernatural yet. _

_ The motel actually had a decent lineup of channels, and ESPN was showing back to back football games. And the three Winchester men were happily vegging out on the beds, eyes glazing over, as they moved into the third game of the day. Between him and his father (Sam was too young) they'd already gone through a 24 case of beer, another one halfway empty, and Dean was just returning from what seemed like his thousandth trip to relieve himself. _

_ "Gawd," he'd sighed, flopping back down on the bed before popping another beer. It would be awesome if I could start an IV and a catheter – mainline the good stuff and never have to get out of bed to get rid of it. _That_ would be the life."_

He's not quite sure why he's smiling at the memory, as now the ramifications of that wish have most definitely fully sunk in. But for whatever reason he is – maybe just because of the simplicity of the day and the fact that it was a nice family memory, one of few that he possesses. It's a good memory – regardless of the prophecy it unknowingly declared.

Dean stays quiet as Justin talks Sam through the transfer back to the bed, hanging onto fond memories of the day and of the past. But as soon as his head hits the pillow the memories drift away, leaving him simply floating on the edge of sleep.

The sounds of Sam and Justin cleaning up in the room are hollow, disjointed. The fact that he gets so tired so quickly is still a new experience to him.

Suddenly Sam's voice is pulling him back to consciousness and Dean blinks blearily in the darkened room, the late afternoon sun trying to spill through the curtains.

"I'll get the car back. I'll fix it," Sam says. He's paused in the doorway, one hand on the molding as he turns and faces his brother.

It takes Dean a minute to figure out what Sam is talking about, their discussion of the fate of his car seeming so long ago. But the conversation has clearly been weighing on him.

"I don't know how…it'll be expensive and I'm gonna have to find someone to help. But I know how much she means to you. I'll get her back for you."

Dean is already half asleep, the events of the long day taking their toll on his exhausted mind, but he's awake enough to hear Sam's words and he musters up a tired smile and a small nod of thanks before drifting off.

In his dreams he's driving.

SUPERNATURAL

Sam goes with them the day of Dean's first outing. Not because Dean wants Sam there, but because neither of them can think of any way he can stay safe without Sam there to watch his back. There's too much evil in the world, both supernatural and human, yet it's pretty darn clear that Justin and the aides are all living in lala land – no clue of the dangers that surround them at every pass.

Dean would have preferred to find another solution. Any other solution. Quite honestly, he would just as soon not go in the first place. Because he knows how hard it's going to be for him out in the world, knows that things have drastically changed for him, and it's going to be hard enough to face those realities on his own without Sam there to witness them, too. But Justin is adamant that re-emerging into mainstream culture is the final step before being released from rehab, and he's made it pretty darn clear that he won't sign off on Dean's therapy until he's completed three trips.

And right now, Dean's fairly certain he's not going to even make it through trip one.

The transport van sits in front of the building all clunky and conspicuous…and ugly, much like the wheelchair. And Dean immediately thinks of his sleek, shiny, beauty of a car. The car that's in pieces in a junkyard somewhere. The car that he'll never drive again. He's looking at his new life, his new transportation. Just the thought of it has a pit growing in his stomach, a knot in his throat, and he knows he isn't ready to face the world when he can't even reconcile this van with his new form of transportation.

Beside him, Sam is standing just as still, just as petrified about the prospect of what awaits them this afternoon. They haven't discussed it, but Dean knows his brother well enough to know that the same fears are going through his mind, too. Instinct has Dean wanting to reach out and comfort his little brother, reassure him that they've been through worse and they'll get through this. But honestly, they haven't been through worse, he's not sure they can get through this, and Dean _can't_ reach out – which, when all is said and done, is really the be all and the end all of this whole blasted problem. Because, if he _could_ reach out then they wouldn't be here. They wouldn't be sitting in front of a van with folding doors and a ramp and empty space where there should be seats and a big freaking blue and white wheelchair pasted on the windows, strategizing the best way to make it through a day at the mall without succumbing to their insecurities.

Three other patients are going with them. There's George, a sixty-seven year old war veteran who made it through three tours of duty in Vietnam and Korea without so much as a scratch, only to lose both legs to adult-onset diabetes after retirement, and then there's Heidi, a twenty-one year old undergrad who broke her back after falling off the balcony of her sorority house while drunk on a weekend party binge. She's young and vibrant and gorgeous, and Dean's actually given some thought to what it would be like to invite her to his room one night. But he doesn't dare, can't even come close to figuring out the logistics on that one, and he just can't bear the disappointment that's bound to happen.

They're both already in the van, not exactly thrilled to be there, but nowhere near the anxiety that Dean's feeling. He's expected to go next, Justin and the driver waiting patiently for Dean to make his move, and not fully understanding why he's just sitting there. But as they wait, the fourth member of their group appears. And everything changes.

Claire is nine years old; the victim of a hit and run car crash that killed her thirteen year old brother and put her mother in a coma that she has yet to wake up from. Paralyzed from the mid-chest down, she's the lucky one from the crash. Her father has been with her every day in her recovery, pushing her to persevere through the pain and the trials and tribulations. And she does. She's happy, she's determined. She doesn't seem to realize or care what kinds of obstacles she's facing in her life, only that she's alive to face them.

And yeah, it's kinda hard to sit and mope while he watches a child outdo him in the soldiering through thing. Not that he'll readily admit it, but Dean has had his eye on her ever since the big blowup with the whole suicide doctor thing, ever since he grudgingly, but honestly, promised Sam that he would give everything he had to healing. Healing emotionally. And he's impressed by her attitude, amazed at her strength. Kids got her whole life ahead of her, got a whole future that has been turned upside-down, and still she wakes up every single damn day with a smile on her face.

Her father, Paul, gives Sam and Dean a friendly nod as they move past them and toward the van. And it gives Dean pause, because Paul is yet another reason why Dean feels so guilty about giving up on life. He's got it pretty darn bad, too, what with a dead son and a comatose wife and an injured daughter. And while Dean is still too self-absorbed to say the man's worse off than he is, he isn't so caught up in himself that he can't admit it's pretty darn heroic to face every day with the dignity and grace Paul has shown. If they can do it, Dean thinks, then he can sure as hell give it a shot, too.

He waits until Claire is in the van, wheelchair locked in place and ramp lowered down to the ground again before he moves forward, haltingly. It's been a week since his chair came in and he's only just beginning to get the hang of the sip and puff wheelchair, finding the right combination of inhales and exhales and pressure to get the damn thing to move in the direction he wants it to. The ramp to the van is a pretty ominous obstacle with such a small window of accuracy needed to ensure he's centered, and Dean finds he's got to come at it three times before all four wheels make it square onto the platform. Justin and Sam and Paul all burst out with laud and praises when he succeeds, making Dean blush and glare. But Claire is there two, with her dainty little smile encouraging him on as the ramp raises to the same level as the van floor, and Dean makes himself focus on her and drown the rest of the group out, thinking that's likely the only way he's going to get through this day.

When he's locked down, too, Sam hollers a 'see you soon,' through the doors and takes off with Paul to follow behind as Justin and the driver climb into the front of the van. They pull out of the parking lot as Dean mutters under his breath,"next stop, the circus."

---

The Winchester's have been different their whole lives. Dean is used to standing out in a crowd, even when he tries his best to fit in. So it's nothing unusual to be stared at, to be watched from across a room. But as their motley crew works its way through the crowd at the mall food court Dean can't help but think this is a whole new level of different.

Sam's walking beside him in that same way he used to walk through the halls on their first day at a new school – head held high, eyes straight ahead, shoulders back. But stiff, not confident. As though he's saying _I know you're talking about me and I know you're curious, but I'm pretending I don't notice you. _Dean has always wondered if he's singing a little song in his head, the kind petulant five year olds sing as they stick their fingers in their ears; _lalalala, I can't hear you!_

It's disheartening to Dean to realize that Sam is so uptight about being seen in public with him, kills him that he's got to put his little brother through the torment of being associated with different when he's worked his whole life to fit in. This is why Dean didn't want Sam coming with them on this outing. It's bad enough being put under the microscope without having to subject Sammy to the same embarrassment.

There is no denying the fact that human beings are drawn towards the unknown, that their curiosity has them seeking out things that are different and unusual, gawking and gaping to their little heart's content without any regard for the subject they're studying. And now, with the ginormous wheelchair and the ventilator and the inability to move a muscle below his neck Dean is the front runner for anomaly of the year.

He doesn't even notice a hint of apology as they catch group after group blatantly staring at the hardware as everyone rolls by, and Dean doesn't think it's only in his imagination that all conversations shift to focus on them.

Him, specifically.

He catches sound bit after sound bit discussing his vent, discussing George's missing legs, Claire's youth. Heidi is maybe the 'normal' one in their group because so far most conversation doesn't seem to revolve around her. He catches comments like 'so brave' and 'how awful' and 'I couldn't do it,' and with every single comment sees Sam stiffen more, lift his chin higher, shoulders farther back.

At some point, Dean catches sight of Sam as he reaches out and puts a hand on the back of his wheelchair, clearly claiming Dean as his and therefore claiming the disability as his. And Dean would be proud, grateful, if he also didn't see the minute quivering of his brother's chin, the shininess in his eyes, and the fact that he's swallowing convulsively like he's about to throw up. It makes Dean's heart sink even farther, as the thought comes once again that he's done this to Sam, that his decisions have created this situation.

In front of them, Claire pushes her tiny chair through the crowd with a determined air, lips pursed in concentration as her Daddy holds one handle of the wheelchair for support. His head is high, too, but he's more relaxed than Sam, actually falling into the appropriate emotion behind the stance. Dean focuses on them and drowns out everything else, simply forces himself to remember that a nine year old girl can do this, and that means so can he.

Relief comes briefly as they finally push out of the throng of people at the food court and find their way to a much less populated group of benches in front of a major department store. Sam takes the time he needs to compose himself, then plops himself down into a bench beside where Dean has just parked his wheelchair and smiles encouragingly at his brother as though Dean hasn't just seen him on the verge of breaking apart.

"One down," Dean says, pretending along with Sam.

Sam nods, agrees. "One down."

They turn their attention to Justin as the OT claps his hands dramatically. "We're here for three hours, folks. And the goal here is to make an effort at mingling with crowds and experiencing the retail market from your new vantage point." "That means actually shopping, moving, asking for help if you need it. You're not to find some dark corner and hide until it's time to go home. Got it?" He looks directly at Dean, putting an emphasis on the important words, and Dean finds himself shrinking a bit in his anxiety.

"I will be around if you need me for anything, but my expectation is that each of you work independently as much as is possible. Any questions?"

When everyone seems to be clear on what is to happen, Justin urges them off. Dean waits, watching as Claire and Paul take off through the entrance of the department store they're close to, and George and Heidi team up by default and head back to the food court for burgers. Justin stays, eyeing the brother's cautiously.

"I know things are a bit different with the vent, Dean. Obviously you can't be left alone, and we don't expect you to do everything by yourself. But you do still need to interact with people, ask questions and seek help." He looks to Sam. "Do you feel comfortable taking responsibility? Are you familiar enough with the ventilator needs in case something should happen?"

Sam's nod is more confident than his squeaked out 'yeah,' but it's enough to convince the OT to leave them alone, and he excuses himself to make his own rounds, checking up on each of his clients periodically throughout the afternoon.

---

Turns out the day isn't nearly as bad as Dean had expected. It isn't as good as he'd hoped, either. He'd gone in armed with a slew of stereotypes; expected people to talk to him as though he was mentally challenged, anticipated being ignored or avoided. And, of course, he isn't disappointed.

But there is also a very pleasant discovery of the fact that not _everyone_ is like that. Not everyone treats him as an outcast, a pariah. In fact, in some cases he even discovers a general acceptance into mainstream society.

Sam decides, as long as they're here, that Dean should do some clothes shopping, should actually pick out some outfits that _he_ likes as opposed to the stuff Sam and Milla purchased. He's been making snide comments about their choices, and yeah, the choices were practical and comfortable, weren't made because it was something Dean would _like_ but rather because it was something he needed.

And who the hell knows if they will find anything that is both practical and in style – Dean style, that is – but Sam turns off toward the nearest department store and Dean has no choice but to follow.

The whole store is crammed tight, aisles too narrow for Dean to get his chair through anywhere but the main lanes, and he can see Sam's frustration increasing with every failed attempt. Doesn't mean Dean isn't annoyed either, but he's not all that thrilled to be on this little shopping trip to begin with so the fact that he's being barred from completing the task isn't terribly upsetting.

It's mostly other shoppers that Dean notices taking an extra step to avoid them, their eyes always directed just to the other side of where they're located as though trying to appear as if they _aren't_ watching with morbid curiosity, that the array of neckties in the aisle behind them are the most interesting thing in the world. Dean knows that trick – he's used it many times himself when seeking out information for a hunt. And he tries with everything in himself to decide they're staring because of Sam's manic obsession with rearranging the racks, and not because of the chair, the vent. Nevertheless, Dean tries to make himself as small as possible and drown out the rest of the world.

They've been at it almost five minutes when the menswear clerk finally frees up at his register and approaches, hands clasped behind his back as he walks pointedly over, brushing a glance over Dean before locking onto Sam. "Can I help you guys find anything?"

His nametag says 'Colton,' and Sam takes full advantage of that as he reels on the man. "As a matter of fact you can, _Colton_," Sam snaps, drawing himself up to his full height, and practically tiptoes, in an effort to be as intimidating as possible. "My brother and I are trying to shop, but he can't seem to get near anything that isn't on the outside edge of your department."

The sales associate takes a step back, hands up in a defensive posture, but his face softens into apology. "Sir, I completely understand your frustration and I apologize. Corporate designs our floorplan, I don't really have any control over it. But I'd be happy to help you find anything you're looking for."

It's not the best apology Dean has ever heard, but it's more sincere than many he's heard in his time, and is backed by Colton's immediate action. The guy steps forward, between Dean and Sam, and starts to push two displays apart, creating more room and the beginning of a pathway for Dean to drive through.

Sam isn't satisfied with that, though. "I think it would be better if you contacted your corporate office and got them to comply with ADA standards."

"Sam—" Dean hisses, watches as the man's face reddens. "Enough, it's not his fault."

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean he can't do anything about it."

"He _is_. He's helping us find what we need. You need to—"

"To what?" Sam snaps. "To calm down? To let it go? To forget that you can't get around in here so that the next time we come shopping we run into the same problem again?"

"My god, Sam. Give the guy a break– he's trying to help. That's a whole— lot more than we can expect out of— most people. Right now, just let him help. –You wanna bitch about the layout in here then call— the corporate office later— and complain." It's a mouthful, and Dean is impressed that both Sam and the sales clerk stay quiet through the breath breaks while he has his say. But when he's finished Sam has clearly made a point of accepting the order for what it is and forces himself to back off.

"I'm sorry, dude," Sam tells Colton, sighs audibly and physically takes a step backwards. "This is all new to us. I just… I overreacted. I'm sorry."

"No harm, no foul," Colton replies good naturedly. He adjusts his tie and looks back to the clothing racks behind him. "I'm sure I'd be frustrated, too."

Dean can see the thinly veiled irritation in Sam's expression, the struggle to keep his temper under control. In a way he feels the same way as his brother, hates the fact that this guy is talking as though he comes from experience. But when he really stops to think about it, Dean realizes that it wasn't that long ago that he was just as uncomfortable in similar situations, that he never really knew what to say and most of the time found himself trying to place himself in the other guy's shoes.

So yeah, it's a different perspective when you're the one sitting in the chair, but that doesn't mean the rest of the world has changed. Just means they need to be educated, and that it's now up to Dean to be the teacher.

"You have no idea," Dean replies, good naturedly, before Sam can say anything he might regret later. "On top of that, try being forced to let this guy choose my clothes. Doesn't matter what I want, I can't fight him on it."

He winks at Sam at the same time he sees the clerk freeze, because that's not exactly the kind of comment he's probably prepared to answer. And it's one thing to empathize with the general situation, but another thing entirely to come face to face with the cold hard facts.

Dean laughs, tries to lighten the mood a little more, because Sam is giving him his bitch face and Colton looks like a fish out of water with his mouth gaping open and shut the way it is.

"Alright, boys, lets go play dress up. I need some clothes. Something that actually looks _good_ on me." _Something that doesn't make me look like I just came from a pep rally_, is what he doesn't say.

Colton seems to make the decision that he's better off busying himself with clearing a path than actually trying to find an appropriate response, and without a word he immediately sets to that task. Within seconds the place is a complete mess of jumbled racks all mushed up together, but Dean is able to cross into the center of the area where the t-shirts are that Sam wants him to look at.

It's a collection of graphic tees, displaying a wide array of characters from multiple genres. Seems the 70's and 80's are coming back with a vengeance. There are screenprints of action heros, and the Smurfs, Scooby Doo, Peace signs, and Yo-yo's and Pac-man.

Sam goes immediately for the action figure shirts, pulls out one with a faded image of Chuck Norris doing a high kick and another of Shaft and the words 'Cut the Crap, Man" running across the chest.

Dean shakes his head, immediately vetoes the first shirt and is about to do the same with the Shaft one when he changes his mind and decides he likes the words. They just seem appropriate.

He also agrees on the Pac-man shirt, and one with a ghost-busters logo on it (just for shits and giggles), and finally an AC/DC shirt that looks faded enough to be an original. Sam drops them all in his lap, then turns to the sales clerk and requests pants, preferably with elastic waistbands.

Dean goes red. "Got enough of those, Sammy, how 'bout something a little— less high-school jockish. More me. Some jeans maybe?"

"Dean, you know it's not—"

"Yeah, yeah," Dean rolls his eyes. "I know. The seams— pressure sores, blah, blah, blah."

"Well?" Sam says, as though that says it all, that Dean should know better than to put something on that could put him in danger. And he does, sure, but that doesn't mean he has to like the fact that he's now limited even to the clothes he wears. It's stupid, and it sucks. And he hates having to even give it a second's thought.

Apparently, so does Colton. The poor kid is looking back and forth between Sam and Dean, following their cryptic conversation, but looking for all the world like he'd rather be having a root canal. Or spending time in a cave full of cobras.

And Dean can't exactly blame him, because honestly? He'd prefer a root canal or cobras over this, too.

But for some reason he feels for the guy, doesn't want to make this any more awkward than it has to be – for either of them. So he hisses Sam's name, a combination of irritation and warning, and somehow Sam manages to take the hint, stops talking about the medical issues Dean faces and breathes deep.

"OK, let's compromise. How about some khaki's."

_Maybe because Dean Winchester doesn't do dress slacks_, Dean thinks to himself before grudgingly remembering that Dean Winchester doesn't do a lot of things that he suddenly finds himself doing these days – like wheelchairs and trachs and catheters. He laughs sarcastically, glares a little bit at Sam, but then nods his approval.

"Let's take a look."

---

They leave with a stack of halfway suitable pants and shirts, stuff Dean can at least stomach when he's forced outside in public. And Colton seems relieved when they finally check out, but he remains ever polite, thanking them for their purchases and inviting them to return again soon.

Somehow, they've managed to kill over two hours of the allotted three, and Sam quickly agrees with Dean that they've spent enough time 'interacting' with the rest of the world. It's past lunchtime, and while Dean has at least had a mid-morning Ensure, they are both hungry.

Sam suggests hamburgers, fries, milkshakes. It sounds amazing, and Dean's mouth waters when he realizes it's been weeks – months even – since he's tasted the greasy, salty awesomeness of good old fast food.

They move in sync back to the food court, Sam naturally adjusting his stride to walk comfortably beside Dean's wheelchair, and when they arrive Sam waves his hands at the many different restaurants to choose from and allows Dean to lead the way. Dean dutifully ignores the stares and comments he hears as they pass, pretends not to notice the fact that the girl at the register fails to even look his way as they place their order, and then tries even harder to pretend that Sam isn't feeding him in the middle of a crowded shopping mall.

Really, when it's all said and done the day really hasn't been that bad all things considered. They haven't fallen into any life and death situations, people didn't stand there and mock and tease or bar them entrance into the stores, there was really no discrimination other than a clueless floor designer in a national department store.

But the funny thing is, riding back that day, Dean still can't help but feel as though the day was a failure. For some reason he's had this idea in the back of his head that his injury was exclusive only to the hospital, to rehab, and that the minute he went back out into the real world everything would just *poof* magically disappear and his life would be back to normal.

Dean can't help but feel disappointed, and apprehensive about the next trip. He's not ready for this to be his world.

SUPERNATURAL

Trip number two is another group visit, this time to the Aquarium. It's the same gang as before, plus Jake, a guy about Dean's age who'd suffered a brain injury snowboarding. He's mobile, but has the mental capacity of a three year old, and his mother was convinced he would be thrilled to see the fish up close.

Once again, Sam rides over with young Claire's father, Paul. He's become quite impressed by the world-weary father's devotion to his daughter and his ability to adapt, and Sam is hoping to take something away from his time with the man.

It's mid-morning on a Thursday which means a lighter crowd than one they would expect to find on a weekend. But it's also the middle of the summer, so it's not exactly dead. Sam's breath hitches at the line of parents and children waiting to buy their tickets, and Paul reaches across the car as Sam moves to get out, grips his shoulder, and squeezes.

"Just breathe, Sam. Relax. They're just people."

"People who aren't used to others who are different," Sam says, shudders. The whole world is so wrapped up in normal, anything new and different is merely an anomaly, something to be studied and prodded. But not necessarily accepted.

Oddly enough, he'd taken a different perspective away from their experience at the mall than Dean did. Where Dean experienced some frustration, Sam walked away feeling as though nothing in their world would ever be right or simple again. What his brother had apparently failed to notice was the sheer impossibility of remaining unremarkable while in public, the fact that everyone noticed, discussed, and likely went home remembering Dean and the wheelchair. Where other patrons managed to blend in with the crowd, Dean and Sam now stood no chance of that. And in a place where they are wanted men in both the natural world and the supernatural one, that fact holds far too many implications to be comfortable with.

And that doesn't even begin to cover the more immediate fact that the rest of the world is just plain careless. There were too many close calls, too many times that Sam had feared someone might bump the chair or knock into the ventilator, too many times that displays were set up in such a way that Dean had no choice but to dodge them. And he isn't that great of a driver yet, still has to think about how he utilizes the controls before he actually executes them. It's dangerous for there to be too many people around – not when so much could go so wrong.

That thought spurs Sam onward, meeting up with the transport van just as the last of the group glides off the lift. Dean is sitting in a small patch of shade off to one side of the walkway, and he grins when Sam approaches.

Sam tries to smile back, manages to meet it about halfway before a throng of noisy pre-schooler's with their parents draw his attention back to ticket line. He glares at Justin as the man hands him their two tickets.

"You sure this is a good idea? There are too many kids here."

Justin shrugs, smirks a little. "Can't hide from children all the time," he says. "You've got nothing to worry about. We'll all be fine."

_The hell I don't_, Sam mumbles under his breath, but shoots a pinched smile Justin's way to indicate he's not going to argue the point. Little good it would do him anyway. Instead he bends over and checks the leads on Dean's vent (his brother had experienced another pop-off two nights before, and Sam is dealing with it by becoming extra observant of the seals) and then stands back up with a nervous shrug when he's satisfied that everything is good.

Sam does notice the sweat on Dean's forehead though, and realizes he must be burning up in the hot sun. He wipes the sweat away, takes a minute to be disheartened by the fact that the rest of Dean's body is completely dry and without any tell-tale moisture at all, and then quickly encourages him to get inside. It never fails to surprise Sam, all these new things he has to remember, like the fact that Dean's body doesn't regulate temperature below the line of injury any more. It could be a hundred degrees and Dean wouldn't sweat, minus ten and he wouldn't have goosebumps, wouldn't shiver. That part of his regulatory system is now shot to hell and it now requires complete awareness to ensure Dean's body remains at a reasonable 98.6 degrees.

The group of children is gone when they enter the lobby, presumably already working on their tour, and Sam breathes a sigh of relief that they have waited just long enough to start out without much of a crowd.

He takes a look around, scanning for obstacles or barriers, taking note of exits and paths.

The building has multiple floors, but it flows neatly from one level to the next through a system of ramps that run seamlessly between the massive glass tanks that span three stories high and are filled with fresh and saltwater fish of every imaginable species. The floor space is wide, plenty of room, he decides grudgingly, to house the small crowd of people that are collected inside.

The tour begins on the ground floor and Sam grabs a map before he follows Dean and the rest of their group past the cafeteria and gift shop to the first exhibit where a shallow pool of stingrays floats around and a guide is encouraging visitors to come pet them.

Sam stays back with Dean as he watches Claire sidle her wheelchair up beside the tank and tentatively reach out a hand to touch the back of a nearby ray. Her father is crouched beside her, reaching his own hand in and grinning eagerly at his daughter, and the special moment is impossible to miss. Sam's own heart swells with joy at the genuine squeal of delight as she discovers the leathery skin against her fingertips, and looking over, Sam is pleased to see that Dean is smiling at the interaction, too.

As they move along the tank of stingrays becomes enclosed and they find themselves feeding into a glass encased hallway, water and creatures all around them. On the ceiling, more stingrays float along and Sam can see their mouths on their underbellies.

"It looks like they're grinning," Sam comments as Dean leans his head forward then drops it back, facing up so he can see what is above him.

"Smirking," Dean amends. "Like they have a secret or something."

Looking closer, Sam can see where Dean is getting his interpretation and he nods his agreement as he relishes in the normalcy of the conversation.

They move on, deeper down one hallway as the lights begin to dim. Here, colored fluorescents backlight the darkened rooms containing deep water fish that normally reside in the depths of the ocean. They have already lost the rest of their group, possibly to the other hallway or to moving through the exhibits at different speeds. Sam is almost certain Claire and Phil haven't even left the petting tank yet.

Another group walks through, commenting on the colors and pointing out a few fish, but quickly move on. Dean, Sam is surprised to note, is actually taking the time to read every single description of the creatures within the tank. He's never been the scholar, never really taken an interest in learning new things unless those things pertained to their newest hunt, but Sam happily moves slowly along the wall with his brother, responding to comments and helping to seek out each creature. They find most of them, and when they have exhausted all possibilities in the search they move on to the next room.

It's filled with Jellyfish, their graceful bodies floating along in the dark tank in an almost mesmerizing fashion. It is there that Sam first notices the little girl, maybe three years old at the most, hanging on shyly to the edge of her mother's sweater. She is absolutely enamored by the elegant fish, her wide eyes staring unblinkingly into the tank. Her brown curls are pulled up into short pigtails on the top of her head, and she's got on a little sear sucker sundress that barely reaches her knees.

Dean watches the jellyfish for a while, but soon his attention wanders to the girl as well, so when she finally breaks from her trance and notices Dean he's ready with one of his patented smiles. She smiles back shyly then quickly turns her face into her mother's leg and grabs on tight.

Mom has been busily ensconced in conversation with two other women, barely paying attention to her daughter to this point, but now she glances over her shoulder to see what has her daughter reacting like that and quickly turns away when she spies the boys, reaches out a hand and unconsciously strokes the little girls hair as she guides her on to the next exhibit, followed hurriedly by her friends. Sam barely even notices the response, though, as he quickly hones in on the smile his brother has just produced, because it's been a long time since he's seen something so genuine and uninhibited come out of Dean.

They sit in the jellyfish room for several moments longer, just enjoying the calm serenity that comes of watching the mystical creatures. And then finally Dean mouths the control straw and leads the way into the next room.

Once again Mom and her friends and daughter are already there, watching several larger fish glide through the underwater environment, and this time Sam feels Mom's watchful eyes on them as they enter the room. This one is quite long, with several podiums set up in the middle that offer more information in an audio format.

Dean quickly takes notice of the child, practically ignores the displays in deference to watching her animatedly point and talk in her childish sentences about the big fish and the pretty colors as her mother responds distractedly to every few comments. After a while she tires of the side she's watching and skips across the room to the other side, stopping at one of the podiums when she notices Dean and gives him another shy smile before hiding behind the structure.

It becomes a bit of a game, and each round she gets a little braver until, three rooms later, she actually dares to come close enough to touch. She reaches out a tiny little hand and pokes Dean's knee hesitantly, but doesn't say anything, and quickly retreats several steps back.

"Well hi there," Dean says. He's probably as surprised as she is at what she's just done, but despite the anxiety Sam feels at the situation, Dean seems to be calm and ok with what's happening.

"Hi," she practically whispers, rotating her hand at the wrist in a wave.

Her mother has managed to miss this entire exchange, fully engrossed in her conversation about what seems to be another acquaintance and her not-so-secret affair with the poolboy. Far too cliché, Sam thinks, and wishes Dean were more aware of _that_ conversation and not his new little girlfriend because he would love to have a laugh at it once they're out of earshot.

Her mother finally looks up, though, at the contact and a stiffness envelopes her body as she turns to her daughter and admonishes her with a shake of the head and a stern look.

"Chloe, what are you doing? You don't just go around touching people like that." It comes out almost as a screech and the little girl shrinks back quickly.

Dean laughs. "It's fine, she's just curious. I can't blame her."

Sam stares at his brother in shock. Dean has always been a bit of a softie when it comes to kids, but considering the animosity he's been sharing with everyone else in his life Sam didn't expect this total one-eighty that he's seeing.

"Chloe?" Dean says, using the same name the mother used. "I'm Dean. It's alright, sweetheart. You can come closer."

"No, she can't," her mother snaps, although it comes out sounding uncertain. The other two women with her have fallen back, mouths agape as they stare dumbstruck at the scene before them, but either unable or unwilling to help.

Dean's eyes go soft, hiding maybe a hint of hurt feelings, but Sam is amazed at the calmness that surrounds his brother's words. "I'm not going to hurt her…I can't." The ventilator breathes for him, stopping him before he can finish his thought, and the mother takes the time to harrumph and grab at her little girl's arm, begins to pull her away.

"Please," Sam chimes in when he realizes Dean can't yet. "You don't want her to grow up afraid of wheelchairs, do you?"

The woman freezes midstride, her hand tightening on Chloe's shoulder, and for the longest of moments time seems to stand still. But finally she turns, her own features softer now, and she smiles apologetically.

"You're right, I'm sorry. I just didn't think…"

"That it was polite to be curious?" Sam asks, gently. He glances over at Dean who seems frustrated, but strangely ok with Sam taking the lead on this one. "It's better than being stared at and talked about. Or worse yet, ignored completely. My brother loves kids; it's alright, really. I'm Sam by the way."

"Marissa," the mother replies. She takes a step closer, pulling Chloe along with her. "Let's go say hi to the nice man, shall we sweetie?"

They move closer and Dean compliments the girl on her pretty dress and her beautiful curls, and she proudly smoothes her hands down the dress before picking up the skirt and twirling back and forth several times.

It's strange, really, because Sam can't think of a single time in their lives that would have made it acceptable to tell a parent how their children should or shouldn't react in the presence of strangers. And when you think about it, that's exactly what they are – first and foremost. Before becoming the man in the wheelchair, or that man's brother, before becoming Dean and Sam Winchester, to this little girl they are nothing but strange men who have struck up a conversation with her. It makes sense that her mother would be freaked out, and in any other situation Sam would have been just as eager to encourage the "never talk to strangers" speech.

So why then, he wonders, does the wheelchair trump the stranger card? Why is it not socially acceptable for the mother to react in light of her fears of the chair, despite the fact that he and Dean are also strange men. It doesn't make much sense, but then, not much does in their lives anymore. And Sam desperately wants Dean to feel as though he still fits in – at least as much as he ever did before.

"Do you come see the fish a lot?" Dean is asking when Sam focuses on the conversation again. He's got a smile on his face that could light up the room, happy to have a friend to talk with who doesn't seem concerned by the chair.

"I've never seen them before," Chloe intones, her pitch rising and falling in time with her ever widening eyes. "Mommy says sometimes you can even swim with them."

"The dolphin show," he mother supplies as Chloe asks, all serious, "Do you wanna swim with the fish, too? You can come with us."

She looks so hopeful, and it breaks Sam's heart to hear Dean tell her that, 'no, he can't swim with the fish with her.' There is no explaining to a three year old about paralysis and vents, no comprehension when all she has ever known in the world is ambulatory people.

Chloe's face falls immediately at his response, but Sam comes to the rescue as he kneels down to her level and puts a hand on Dean's wrist. "We could come _watch_ you, though," he offers, glances to Dean for confirmation.

"I'd like that," Dean agrees. Sam relaxes, pleased at this contact with the first person who treats his brother like he isn't in a wheelchair. He's doesn't really have much experience with kids, has never really given much thought to them one way or another, but now he's finally realizing just how special they are. Kids seem to view the world with a special kind of glasses, overlooking the imperfections in everyone and only seeing what's inside.

Immediately, Chloe perks up again. She starts bouncing around, tugging on her mother's arm and pulling her away towards the next room. "Let's go!" she exclaims, looks back over her shoulder to make sure everyone is following. "Let's go see the dolphins."

A bit of a smile forms as Dean starts after the eager child, ignoring the wary glances the mother and her friends continue to throw back at them as they cover the distance to the auditorium. He'd be wary too, Sam tries to remind himself.

---

The entrance doors are at the top of a steep flight of stairs that bisect rows and rows of metal bleachers. People are already crowding into the seats, and they nudge and jostle past as Sam and Dean come to a dead stop in the aisle in front of the doorway.

There is no way Dean is getting down the stairs, but there's nowhere else for them to go either; not enough space in the aisle spanning the circumference of the arena to settle the wheelchair and not be in the way of traffic. They stand there for several minutes, pissed and confused, as Sam scans the area for another route. Chloe and her group are long gone, and he wonders if the little girl has even noticed that they're not with them anymore, wonders if her mother has settled into a sense of relief that she's rid of them. He can't help feelings of animosity towards the rest of the crowd as they breeze past without a care in the world as Sam searches desperately for a way to include his brother in this show.

Finally a woman in one of the Aquarium uniforms approaches them, wading through the throng of people trying to get through until she is nose to nose with Sam. "You're going to have to come in through the level two entrance," she explains abruptly, pointing back out the doors to indicate that they need to leave. "Accessible seating is one tier down."

She's clearly flustered, busy, but that doesn't stop the irritation noticeable as Sam snaps "and how exactly do we get there? I didn't see any signs."

The woman sighs, but lifts the walkie talkie she's carrying and calls to someone on the other end. "I gotta run some guys down to the second floor entrance. Keep an eye on the crowd for me will you?"

She's already leading the way back out the entrance doors before an answer comes through and Sam rolls his eyes as he pushes after her, trying to protect Dean from the crowd of people still trying to come in. He begins to regret the decision to attend this little show, debates on suggesting they just skip it altogether now that the object of Dean's attention is nowhere to be found anymore. But as the guide directs them onto the elevator Sam starts to suggest just that when Dean strikes up a conversation and he can't bring himself to interrupt.

"So you really let people swim-- with the dolphins?"

"It's not like a community swim or anything," she says, tone just a little nicer now that she's resigned herself to her new task. "But yeah, we call a few people up from the audience."

Dean nods, eyes lighting up. "Well, I don't know if you-- have any control over who they—pick. But there's a little girl—named Chloe that's dying to swim—with the dolphins."

She smirks a little, shrugs. "I'll see what I can do," the girl says. "I can't make any promises, but I can mention it to them."

"Good enough for me," Dean says.

By then, they've arrived on the second floor and Sam grudgingly decides they might as well continue this. As Dean was busy rigging the audience call outs Sam was busy calming himself down, trying not to think about just how much effort it takes just to enjoy a day out. And what's frustrating is that he doesn't even know whether or not Dean is enjoying himself or whether he's just putting on a happy face for show. He doesn't even know if all of this is worth the effort.

Sam follows Dean and the guide slowly out of the elevator and down the hallway to the second floor entrance, noticing bitterly that no one else is using it; it clearly serves the purpose of accessible entrance only and he can't stop himself from asking "how were we supposed to know this was here?"

"You have to arrange with the information desk – they're supposed to tell you about all the accessibility options." She says it with such a matter-of-fact tone, and Sam can almost hear the underlying hint of "you're the one traveling with the guy in the wheelchair, you should know these things."

It's about now that Sam finally concludes Dean's indifference towards the whole situation is carefully controlled emotion, a merging of shutting down completely and lashing out in agitation and outrage. Studying him more carefully, Sam can see the slight shake of his head, the bulging muscles in his neck, the grinding of his jaw. Dean isn't even close to being a happy camper – he's just a very good actor. And Sam sure as hell doesn't want to be out anymore.

"Do you really want to go in there?" Sam asks, catching up to his brother and leaning over him so that only Dean can hear what he's saying.

"We promised Chloe," Dean says. It's not really an answer, and Sam pushes further.

"They're long gone, Dean. She'll never know. "

Dean thrusts his chin forward in a gesture that has lately become the equivalent of a shrug as he continues to propel himself forward towards the door. He stops just before crossing through the threshold, mind made up. "We can't leave until everyone-- else is ready so we might as-- well take in the show."

Sam's shoulders slump, but in truth he knows Dean is right. It's not like they have anything better to do in the meantime. He looks up to see the guide holding the door open for them, looking somewhat impatient at their hesitation. She obviously has better things to do, and despite her softening when Dean brought up Chloe's desire to be 'chosen,' it seems pretty clear that she wants to duck and run fast.

She points them in the right direction and is gone as soon as the brother's turn in the right direction, not even waiting for a thank you. And Sam is just as happy not to have to acknowledge her less than willing assistance as they continue to their seats on their own.

The accessible seating is located halfway down the auditorium, tucked to one side of the circular structure on a large, flat landing. There is a glass barrier between it and the next row down, and the space accommodates what appears to be 6 wheelchairs and one family member per user. There is a bench seat, followed by a gap large enough for two chairs, a bench wide enough for two people, another two chair gap, another two person seat, two chair gap and finally another one seater bench against the wall.

"And what if you've got a big family?" Sam mutters bitterly as he follows Dean to one of the available spaces and takes his own seat beside him. No one hears him, and he wisely chooses not to press the issue at that moment.

Heidi is already there, sitting with another girl about her age who she introduces to the boys as her sister, Leslie.

"Did you guys have as much trouble finding this entrance as we did?" Sam asks almost immediately, finding that he can't hold in the frustration as well as he'd originally thought he could.

Heidi shrugs and says, "we had to ask at the front desk."

"You'd think they would make the _accessible_ entrance more accessible."

"Sam, just drop it," Dean whispers at the same time as Leslie nods emphatically and adds, "it's like this everywhere you go. I never realized just how much trouble it is for someone in a wheelchair to get around until I started really looking."

For some reason this surprises Sam, and he quickly realizes it's not the fact of the statement so much as it is his lack of observation to the matter. It's not like he's been traipsing all over town in the time Dean's been in the hospital but he's been shopping, to the bank, picked up some fast food here and there. He has been inside enough places that he should have taken notice of their accessibility, especially since Dean's spacial needs are so much greater even than Heidi's. He can't help but feel guilt at how much he's missed that he should have been paying attention to.

He can't bring himself to admit to not noticing, though, so instead of answering Leslie he heeds Dean's request and tries to drop the topic altogether. "I guess we should just feel lucky we've got reserved seating," he says, forcing the bitterness and sarcasm from his voice.

"And out of the splash zone," Heidi adds, pointing to the first several rows and the signs written in red lettering that warn patrons they will get wet if they choose to sit there.

Sam lets out a little laugh at that, grunts a 'thank god,' and then takes a closer look at the brave souls eagerly inhabiting the splash zone.

Somehow he isn't surprised to see Chloe and her mother there, despite the tots desire to swim with the dolphins. But he does see Jake and his mother, and he can't help but watch for a while. Thanks to his brain injury the ex-snowboarder now acts more like a hyper child, eagerly pawing at his mother's shoulder to get her attention as he takes notice of something off in the wings. He's leaning over the rail, pointing wildly, his mother trying to pull him back into his seat before his eagerness gets him in trouble.

A while later, when the show starts, Sam's attention is again drawn to the duo as Jake lets out a high pitched shriek of delight at the sight of the dolphins, bouncing agitatedly in his seat while his mother holds him down with a determined expression on her face, mouth set in a tight line and eyebrows turned down in concentration.

Sam looks over at Dean, so still and unanimated but fully cognizant of his surroundings, and can't help the relief that overcomes him that he's still got _his_ Dean despite the physical disabilities. Given a choice between the two, between a brother who can walk but doesn't know who he is anymore and a brother stuck inside his body but can still carry on an intelligent conversation and make decisions for himself he'll happily take what he's got.

He feels horrible for that realization, wonders what kind of person that makes him. Dean has made it pretty damn clear that he doesn't want to live as he is, that he's only making a go of it for Sam. But it's days like today, with the little girl, that Sam catches a glimpse of the old Dean, thinks his brother will someday learn to accept this whole thing. And he's glad for the fact that Dean can still think clearly to actually make that choice.

Later, when they're back at the rehab center and Jake is regaling the group in his stilted language about their adventures at the Aquarium, when Dean is sitting still as a statue listening to him and politely trying to fill in missing words and concepts, Sam reminds himself that things could be worse. He reminds himself that Dean is still Dean inside. He reminds himself that Dean could be dead, and he wouldn't even have the chance to go places and be stared at and inconvenienced. This might still be horrible for him. But from the caregiver's perspective, at least, Dean's injury isn't the worst thing that could have happened.

They will get through this, will face it just as they've faced every other bit of adversity thrown their way.

SUPERNATURAL

Justin's final requirement before releasing Dean is a trip to a restaurant. It's Dean's favorite kind of restaurant, fried and greasy comfort food with a southern emphasis, and just about all of his therapists are coming, and Chelsea and Mona, and of course Sam and Milla. They plan it for the week before Dean goes home, and in a way it's a celebration – or as much of one as there can be under the circumstances – of his completion of therapy. He'll be released at the end of the week, reduced to a three day a week outpatient, and the rest of his care will all be on Sam.

Sam and Milla arrive at New Beginnings about half an hour before Dean is set to be loaded into the transport van. The entire ride over Sam has been jumpy and nervous, trying hard to hear Milla's calm words of comfort and respond to them. But it's hard – the last two outings have been nothing if not disastrous examples of how much their lives have changed. Not that anything specifically horrible happened, just the common expectations of curious people reacting to the unknown, but for Dean – and consequently, Sam – it had been the greatest eye-opener to the reality of Dean's situation. For his no cares, recklessly-social brother, the idea of people being afraid to interact with him was hard to take. And the fact that now the first thing everyone sees is the wheelchair, the ventilator, the _difference_, and not Dean's roguish good looks and too-confident personality makes public interactions a painful experience. One Sam is not looking forward to witnessing once again.

So it is, admittedly, a little hard to process when he and Milla enter Dean's room and find him smiling, and seemingly calm. He is still in bed, but dressed, hair gelled and spiked, and Chelsea and Stu are just pulling his legs over the edge in preparation of transferring him to the wheelchair. They stop for a minute to allow Dean time to greet his guests, and he beams up at the two of them with a grin that has been noticeably absent for the last few months.

"Sammy! You made it. How do I look? I picked the clothes myself, but I gotta tell you – you haven't left me much to work with."

Sam falters for a minute, taken off guard by the question. Dean hasn't been concerned by his appearance much lately – at least not the clothes or hair. He worries about the hose sticking out of his neck, and the spastic muscles that refuse to allow his limbs to relax into normal positions. He worries about the g-tube that runs out of his stomach, the cath that he pees into, and the way the collection bag bulges around his calf if the pants are too tight. But in general, Dean hasn't worried about whether his clothes match, or how much sock shows between his shoes and the bottom of his pants, or any of what Sam has come to think of as the superficial aspects to Dean's life. And honestly, Sam hasn't either.

But he takes a second look now, and realizes that his brother has actually put some effort into his appearance this time. He's got on a pair of solid black pants – still the track style with an elastic waist, but probably the "dressiest" pair he's got in his wardrobe at rehab – and a red t-shirt underneath a red and black checked button up, the buttons done halfway up and open at the top. He only has the one pair of shoes now – not much chance of them wearing out – but the grey Nike's and black socks seem to blend reasonably well with the rest of the outfit. And the fact that he's allowed someone to take the time to actually cut and spike his hair says more for the ensemble than any other single factor.

"You look great, you handsome devil," Sam says, unable to keep the surprise out of his voice. Even the stuff they'd bought on their trip to the mall has been sent home with Sam, because by the end of the day Dean seemed frustrated by their purchases, and was complaining that the khaki's only served to take him out of the gym and into the standard jock school attire. Either way you put it, he was still dressing far too preppy for his liking; tie a sweater around his neck and the ensemble would be complete.

"Gotta say, little brother, I'm looking forward to-- getting some real food. I'm sick and tired-- of the healthy shit they keep trying to push on me. It's bad enough they've physically got to feed-- me, doesn't mean they have to change my diet, too."  
"I've been trying to change your diet for years," Sam adds, then looks to Chelsea and Stu who are smirking at the conversation. "He's a heart attack waiting to happen with all the junk he puts into his body."

"Not my fault everything that tastes good isn't good-- for me, Sam. The taste buds know what they like – gotta deliver."

"Well then let's get you moving so that you can satisfy them," Chelsea teases, rolling her eyes good naturedly at her patient. If you want to give yourself a heart attack, I suppose you're entitled.

"Damn straight. Let's go."

Stu moves in to complete the transfer process, then stops, turns and addresses Sam. "Do you want some more practice since you're here?"

Sam hesitates, just for a second. He hates this part, mostly because of the symbolism of baby brother carrying his big brother, but in less than a week he will be Dean's primary care-giver and he knows it's important to feel confident in the tasks. "Yeah, I'll do it."

"Don't drop me, Sammy," Dean warns, his teasing lilt just a tad shaky – but only enough that Sam notices. He has to give his brother some credit – it must be hard having to rely on him so much, and for the most part Dean has been making efforts to repress the fears and frustrations that come of the situation.

"I'm not gonna drop you," Sam mutters, plastering a smile on his face as he approaches and making an effort to maintain the lines of levity between them. "Your brain is screwed up enough without me adding to the damage."

Sam's hands shake as he approaches, and he has to wipe his sweaty palms on the back of his pants. Despite their efforts to make jokes, dropping his brother is a real possibility. Dean is no lightweight, despite the nearly thirty pounds he's dropped since he got hurt. And there are a number of additional factors that play into the transfer process – he's got to be careful of the vent hosing, and of not trapping or bumping ankles and wrists. It's been nearly a month that Sam has been practicing transfers, if you count the practice dummy they actually taught him on. But, despite their similarities, a dummy really doesn't do justice to just how hard it is to actually transfer a real person, and it's one of the many factors that has Sam fearing the end of the week.

But he puts on a happy face for Dean and finishes his approach. Sam waits for Stu to start talking him through it, but this time the aide just nods encouragingly.

"You know what to do, Sam. I'm right here if you need anything."

And don't that just beat all…his first solo transfer, just when he's too afraid to ruin the good mood Dean is in.

They already have Dean's legs hanging off the bed, but he's propped up on his left side by pillows and the raised head of the bed, Chelsea, kneeling on the mattress, sitting right behind him for additional support. Sam pulls Dean upright, and notices that Chelsea backs off the minute his hands are on his brother. It amps up the nerves tenfold, but Sam takes a deep breath and tries to hide it.

"I'm not made of porcelain, Sam. You're fine," Dean whispers. So much for hiding it. But the words of encouragement help, and Sam finds himself relaxing as he slips his arms underneath Dean's armpits and wraps him up in a big bear hug, careful not to pinch the vent tubing in the process. He plants his legs wide, and eyes up the wheelchair once more before taking action.

"On three, Dean. One…two…on three he lifts with a big grunt and shifts in place before lowering Dean gently into the chair on the first try, missing the armrests which have gotten in the way in the past. His brother has a huge black bruise on his right hip to prove it, and Sam can't escape the guilt.

When that's done, he keeps one hand on Dean's chest as he steps back, expecting Stu or Chelsea to jump in and do the rest. And he's maybe just a little bit disappointed when Chelsea pushes, "you know what to do, Sam. We're here if you need us, but you're fine."

Milla comes forward, though, silently offers her help which Sam accepts with a slight nod of the head. They seem okay with that, since she will be helping at home, too. Together, they adjust Dean's clothing and strap him in and swap out the vents. And for a minute Dean's smile seems to falter, but by the time they're done he's plastered it right back up there for all to see as he puts his mouth around the sip 'n puff straw and propels himself out of the room to the main lobby.

---

For at least the first five minutes Dean is actually excited to be there, stoked at the prospect of eating something that isn't cooked in mass quantities and then freeze-dried for future consumption.

As much as he hates to think about it, Dean's become rather adept at maneuvering his wheelchair around, and he steers himself back through the crowded restaurant amidst the rest of the group without mishap. He's too focused on what he's going to order to really pay attention to everyone else in the room, and maybe that's a good thing because for the first time in months he feels almost normal again.

In fact, he manages to forget himself so well that he actually falls back into old Dean mode for all of those first five minutes, grinning devilishly at the hostess as she places menus on the table and gives her requisite spiel about the daily specials and tells them their waitress will be over for them soon.

He lets Sam read the menu to him, manages to forego a comment that it's his body, not his eyesight, that has failed him. And when the waitress, Lindsay, comes to take their drink orders, for just a few seconds, he forgets himself.

She is young and pretty, does her job well and without obvious prejudice. She is maybe the first 'outsider' Dean has encountered that doesn't look at him like something that should be put under a microscope. And she _does_ _look_ at him, which is a whole hell of a lot more than he's experienced in the first two field trips.

At some point as she made her way around the table taking orders someone must have told her why they're all gathered, because when she gets to Dean she leans a hip on the table so that she's facing him directly and says, "It's your big day, handsome, gotta order something good."

Dean beams, waggles an eyebrow suggestively at her as he leans his head forward. "What's your specialty, sweetheart?"

If he'd been watching, he would have seen Sam's eyes bug out of his head faster than a Loony Toons character. And maybe that would have toned him down just a tad. But as it is, Dean decides he's having too much fun to control himself. It's been too long since he's been able to let loose like this, too long since he's felt like himself.

"The raspberry lemonade is pretty good," Lindsay supplies. "And we make our vanilla coke's the old fashioned way…a lot of people like those."

"Well, that's all well and good, doll, but that's really not what I was talking about. I mean _your_ specialty. After all, I am finally a free man. Got a lot of time to make up for."

She looks so bewildered by his suggestion, shocked at the implied sexual nature of it, that she stumbles back a couple steps in her haste to compose herself. It makes sense, the girl was just doing a nice deed, trying to make him feel special. She probably wasn't expecting his former prowess to be the laurels he chooses to rely on.

"I'm sorry," Dean apologizes quickly. "I didn't…I just." He looks away, feeling his cheeks flush as he mumbles, "a raspberry lemonade, please."

And that's that. Lindsay finishes taking orders and stumbles off towards the kitchen as Dean sinks into the familiar depression that has defined his last months. He feels like an idiot, mentally kicks himself for thinking that she might have actually been flirting with him. Because he can't think of a woman in her right mind who would want the problems that most certainly would accompany any kind of fling with him. Not when there are plenty of able bodied men out in the world.

"You can't possibly tell me those kinds of lines used to work for you," Stu chimes in, pulling Dean from his self-pity and making him come back to the present.

Dean shoots him an uncertain grin, raising his eyebrows in a way that hints at the possibility, but doesn't really confirm it. He drops his head back against the head rest, closes his eyes tightly, and tries to erase the last couple minutes from his memory. _Stupid,_ he berates himself. _You're not that guy anymore._

"He likes to think he's a regular Don Juan" Sam teases, apparently unaware at just how much Dean has been affected by what's just happened. "Poor girls didn't know what they were getting themselves into until it was too late."

"Yeah, well, now they do," Dean says bitterly. He doesn't open his eyes, just flares his nostrils as he focuses on the breaths being forced into his body.

And suddenly there is a hand on his cheek, soft and feminine, the thumb stroking the line of his jaw as he grinds his teeth together. "Dean, it was one girl, one reaction. Don't tell me you've never been turned down before."

Dean opens his eyes slowly, focuses on Milla's face, too near to him while she whispers the words in his ear. He tightens his lips over his teeth and rolls his eyes. It doesn't matter that Milla is right, doesn't matter that he's probably failed in as many plays as he's been successful, doesn't matter that the denials barely made an impact on him back in the day. Because now is different. Now, when his emotions are frayed and his self-esteem is about as thin as a razors edge, now he can't take the rejection. And he doesn't know what he was thinking even attempting to seduce the waitress into flirting him with him, doesn't know what he had expected to happen.

He knows for a fact that nothing would have happened beyond the restaurant, that it would have gone no further than a simple exchange of words and glances, and the end of the meal would have meant they both went their separate ways without a second glance. That it wouldn't have hurt the waitress to give him what he needs, because his expectations didn't extend further than dinner. That much he knows.

But he also knows that he desperately needed to feel wanted, desired. He knows that he actually let his guard down, that he forgot himself for long enough to think that the waitress was giving off more than just a simple desire to be friendly. And it hurts in a way that past rejections never did. It's more than just a bruised ego – it's a chest deep ache that goes right to the very core of who he is.

Milla is still massaging his jaw, his neck, his cheek, trying to relieve the tension that guarantees otherwise to give him a killer headache. It's another part of him now, the remaining muscles working triple time to try and compensate for what he has lost, and they're constantly tense and knotted from the stress.

"She's just a stupid girl," the woman whispers in his ear, and he closes his eyes tight then reopens them as he nods his agreement with only a small conviction. Looking around the group gathered at the table he can see the concern for him emanating from their stoic expressions, but they have the grace not to stare. All, that is, except for Sam who is wearing his worried puppy face and boring holes into Dean's forehead with his intense eyes.

"Just a stupid girl," Dean repeats, only loud enough that Milla and Sam, one on each side of him, can hear. Sam visibly relaxes, maybe needing the release despite the fact that Dean is only saying the words, doesn't really feel the impact of them.

"I won't let it ruin my meal," he says, more firmly this time. "Let's look at that menu again."

A hint of a smile crosses Sam's face, just a façade to mask his concern, as he picks up the laminated folder and holds it up so that Dean can read it himself this time. Dean knows he's spun a one-eighty on the group, knows that Sam is sure to see through him, but hopefully they can hold off on a discussion until after they've made it back to New Beginning's. Because it's one thing to be upset, but it's another thing entirely to pitch a fit right there in the middle of a crowded restaurant. Talk about unwanted attention.

Lindsay returns soon after, her head held low in sheepish remorse as she delivers the drinks. She is no longer smiling and joking, instead is completely serious as she takes orders one by one. And when she gets to Dean she can't look him in the eye despite his fervored attempts at capturing her attention. He's not about to let her get the best of him, and if it's one thing Dean Winchester is good at, it's putting on a poker face.

He orders steak, medium rare, and a loaded baked potato and country style green beans that are sure to be loaded in bacon grease, and his stomach rumbles just at the thought. It seems like years since he's had anything that might be deemed unhealthy, and he plans on enjoying every last bite of the meal.

There is a cup holder on the wheelchair that normally has a bottle of water in it, with a long bendable straw that can be velcroed to the sip and puff mechanism so that both are within easy reach. Sam reaches for that now, swaps out the water for the glass of lemonade and positions the straw where Dean can reach it. He's already taken a sip of his own. "It's really good," he says as Dean bends down for a drink. "You'll like it."

And he does. The lemonade is the perfect combination of sweet and sour; add that to the fact that he's had nothing but water and apple juice and the occasional cup of decaf coffee for the past several months, and the experience is practically orgasmic.

"Didn't realize just how much I've missed good food," Dean says to the table as a whole. "You people really need to do something about your kitchen staff – it's criminal what you make us eat."

Lanie laughs from across the table. "It's better than slapping you with a lawsuit when we throw out our backs from lifting your fat ass," she teases. "You eat like that all the time, you're bound to end up five hundred pounds before you know it."

"It's not my fault your metabolism is all out of whack," Dean throws back. But her comment has made him think, made him realize that maybe he does have to be careful now. He'll never be as active as he once was, and there is no doubt in his mind that the physicality of life as a hunter is the only reason his eating habits never got the better of him.

"Maybe I _like_ vegetables," Lanie teases.

"And maybe Gary Coleman is the next president of the United States," Dean says sarcastically. "Nobody _likes _vegetables. Nobody likes healthy food period. Except maybe Sammy here, but I think he was dropped-- on his head a few times as a baby."

"Hey," Sam protests, "don't bring me into your fight just to prove a point. Vegetables are good for you – it would do you some good to get used to them."

"Or else what?" Dean asks. He's enjoying the banter, and by the looks of it the rest of the table is about to join in, too.

"No or else, Dean. I'm in charge of your meals from now on. I'll just have to withhold the bad stuff until you eat everything else. I have that power." He grins, winks, and just the way he looks at Dean says he has no intention of taking advantage of his position of power as he's threatening. His brother is a big ole softie when you really get down to it, and Dean expects that Sam would feed him peanut m&m's and beer day in and day out if that's all he was willing to eat.

Doesn't mean the truth of the statement doesn't make an impact. There is no way around it, no way to avoid simple comments and jokes and innocent statements that bring everything into the light. Everything they say, everything they do reminds Dean of his situation. There is no escaping the cold hard facts.

But he's also starting to realize that he can't dwell on the little things. Ignoring them doesn't really mask the pain, but putting so much energy into the emotional pain isn't helping either. So instead of letting an innocent comment affect him Dean forces a smile, and another jibe in return. "Yeah, we'll see how smug you are when I get the department of welfare on your ass for neglect."

"Oh yeah, I can see the headlines now," Sam smirks. "_Man arrested for forcing his brother to eat salad._ There's not a jury in the world that will convict me."

"They will when I play the sympathy card. I'm crippled, for god's sake."

Sam immediately gets quiet, reserved, as he snaps, "Don't say that. I don't like that word."

"Crippled, disabled, handicapped. They all mean the same thing," Dean says. "This is who I am now, Sam. This is _what_ I am."

Dean can tell Sam is about to say more, to protest the less than glamorous description Dean is willingly giving himself, but their food arrives, and the conversation is soon lost as Dean's mouth starts watering in response to the beautiful meal sat in front of him. His sense of smell has come back slightly, not full force by any means but he can smell odors when they're nearby and the scent of the juicy steak fills his nose immediately.

"I'm starved," Dean hints, licking his lips and silently urging Sam to let it go, to instead hurry up and feed him already. It's his celebration lunch and he wants the first bite. He doesn't want to be worrying about the PC way to say he's paralyzed.

Sam obliges, both in dropping the topic and in pulling Dean's plate closer so that he can slice off a bite. While Dean chews that one, moaning loudly in pleasure, Sam quickly cuts up the rest of the steak and the potato. He feeds Dean another bite, then moves to his own plate and takes a bite of his rotisserie chicken, a forkful of rice, spears some salad. And then back to Dean.

It goes on like that for a while, a back and forth tradeoff of between Sam's plate and Dean's. And every once in a while Dean realizes just how unfamiliar the situation is when Sam starts digging into his own meal and forgets that he's feeding two people. Dean reminds himself to let it slide, just gently reminds his wayward brother that he's waiting for a bite, that he's relying on Sam to keep him fed.

He doesn't know how he's expected to be so accepting of such an impossible situation. For a man who has never relied on anyone but himself for everything in life, who has always been somebody else's rock, someone else's shoulder, there is nothing more devastating than having to depend on other people for absolutely everything.

The problem, though, is that feeling sorry for himself isn't fixing anything. What he can do is focus on his mood, focus on accepting the inevitable and ignoring what he can't change. He can't change the fact that Sam has to feed him, but he can choose how he receives the food. He can't change the fact that most people can't see far enough past the wheelchair and the ventilator to see the person inside, but he can change the way he responds back. It's all about mind over matter, choosing to feel only the emotions he allows himself to feel.

It's not the first time he's done that in his life. Just the hardest.

And his theory is soon to be tested.

Lunch winds down soon after. Most of the staff has purchased little parting gifts for Dean, and Sam piles them onto his lap as they pack up to go. There's a t-shirt from Stun that says "Half human, half machine. All Man," and a bluetooth for his phone and environmental control system from Justin. Lanie gives him a waterbottle with a bivalve straw to prevent leaks, and Chelsea has an i-pod purchased by the entire nursing and doctoral staff and loaded with Dean's favorite music – because it's easier than a tape player to set up for Dean to actually control.

Dean makes a crack about being a pack horse, asks Sam if there's anything else he'd like him to carry – a wallet, maybe or a _purse_?

"Sure, if you don't mind," Milla chimes in, inserting a rare bit of humor into her normally reserved demeanor as she sets her own purse into Dean's already filled lap with a smirk.

"Very funny," Dean snarks.

She grins, retrieves the purse as the group weaves their way through the restaurant. "_I_ thought so."

Despite the shaky start, everyone is in a good mood as they leave. They pass tables full of people, ignore the multitude of stares pointed in their direction, the murmured comments. It's a fact of life now, something to either get used to or hide for the duration.

Unfortunately, there is only so much a person can take; especially when emotions are already running so high and unpredictable. So when they move past the hostess booth and Dean overhears the not-so-much muted comment Lindsey the waitress makes to the hostess he can't hold it back any longer.

"I can't believe he was hitting on me. Poor guy must be so lonely," she says, tone a combination of pity and, was that fear?

Something locks in his throat, a catch that shouldn't be possible when he doesn't control his own breath. He blinks back tears, hating his raw emotions, and forces himself to keep moving straight ahead, ignoring Sam's wary glance because he doesn't trust himself to speak.

He just can't do it, can't be as strong as he's been coaching himself to be. The stares and the whispers are one thing – those he can deal with. But the let down, the realization that people truly see him differently, don't see _him_ at all, has come in the form of the waitress and the understanding that the ladies man no longer exists.

"I don't want to have to do that again, Sammy," he says quietly once he's secured inside the van. It's just Sam and him and the driver and he finally feels safe to make the request.

Sam looks at him for a long time. Dean can see the war inside his brother's head over the appropriate response – a pep talk or an agreement. "I won't make you do anything you're not ready for," Sam finally tells him, the fact that he's chosen his words very carefully pretty darn obvious to Dean.

But for now that's good enough. He's leaving rehab at the end of the week, he's fulfilled Justin's stupid three outing rule, and once it's just him and Sam he never has to put himself on display ever again if he doesn't want to. And Dean is just fine with that.

SUPERNATURAL

The calendar on the wall is marked off to August 16th. It's been nearly four months since he's been hurt, four months of rehab, of pain and numbness and torture. Four months living in the same town, with Sam hovering over him more than ever before, and trying to pretend that his past life never existed. Nearly four months of learning to adjust to an unrelenting body. And now they're setting him free.

In a way, rehab has been like a shelter, an escape. It's a wall of protection that Dean isn't sure he will find on the outside. And despite the fact that Sam has been taking charge of nearly all of his care for the past two weeks already, Dean isn't sure he's ready to entrust the same responsibility to his brother when the nurses aren't around for supervision.

He mouths the sip n' puff straw and turns himself around so that he can watch the rest of what is happening in the room. Sam and Milla are fluttering around him like busy little bees, packing stacks of clothes in one duffle bag and handfuls of pre-packaged medical supplies in another. In Kyle's old bed his new roommate is trying to watch out of the corner of his eye, head straining against the archaic halo brace that keeps his spine aligned. The sight of the contraption has not failed to turn Dean's stomach since the day Gary was brought in two days ago, memories of his own captivity being stirred up. It's maybe the one thing that makes the going home easier, because he's not sure that he could look at it for much longer without having nightmares.

Sam zips the last of Dean's luggage and adds it to the neat pile on his bed before sighing nervously and running a hand through his hair. "I think that's everything. Are you ready to go?"

Despite the fact that he's shouting 'no' in his mind, Dean plasters a grin to his face and adopts an air of confidence. "All set."

Milla grabs one of the bags and drapes it over the back of Dean's wheelchair, and throws another back into his lap before shouldering one herself. Sam takes the last two, the heavier ones, and grunts good naturedly. "Don't think you've ever had this much stuff in your life. You used to be a light packer."

Dean doesn't answer. He knows Sam means well, knows that the comment was meant to be a light-hearted attempt at a joke, but it's hard to smile when he knows the exact contents of the five bags they're leaving with. It's hand splints and foot booties, catheters, cans of Ensure, extra trachs, compression stockings and sweatsuits that he wouldn't wear otherwise, and a whole slew of other stuff that they've acquired since his injury.

Milla saves the awkwardness when she stops at Gary's bed and wishes him well, prompting the Winchesters to do the same and re-directing the conversation. And they they're out the door, traveling down the hall for the last time on the way to the lobby. Dean will return once a week for out-patient therapy, but otherwise he will be receiving all his therapy at home.

A crowd has gathered in the lobby, a mass gathering of staff and other patients there to see him off, and as they near closer Chelsea steps forward with a cake angled toward him that says GOOD LUCK DEAN in perfect green block letters.

"You guys didn't have to go – to all this trouble," Dean says, blushing, as he pulls himself to a halt just in front of the red-headed nurse.

"We're gonna miss you," Lanie replies, by way of explanation. She steps forward from behind Chelsea and leans over him, hands wrapping around his. "I think you're one of my favorite patients, ya big pain in the ass."

"Likewise," Dean grins. "Thanks for not giving up on me."

One by one everyone steps forward to say their good-byes, giving hugs and pats and kisses on the cheek, words of encouragement, some through teary eyes and others with broad smiles. The moment is bittersweet, as Dean realizes with a heave of emotion that this is probably the closest he's ever been to a group of people. It's hard to believe that something good can come out of something so bad. Hard to believe that it took such a tragedy to form actual bonds and friendships.

Someone starts passing out plates of cake, gives Sam two, which he balances precariously in one hand as he forks up a bite for himself followed immediately by a bite that he feeds to Dean. It's good cake, chocolate with a buttercream icing that is just on the shy side of too sweet, and Dean savors the first bite, letting it melt in his mouth for several seconds as Sam swallows two more bites.

"Want more?" Sam finally asks when it seems like Dean has finally swallowed. Dean licks his lips and nods.

"Please."

They stay for another ten minutes or so, finishing the cake and having final good-bye conversations, and then the guy with the transport van comes in to tell them he's got another pickup in an hour and needs to get them on the road.

And that's it. Dean leaves through the opened door, flanked by Sam and Milla on either side of him, and enters the vast, scary world of the able-bodied. As he maneuvers himself onto the lift, Dean suddenly is overcome by the uncertainties of all the new situations he's about to encounter. He has to bite his lip to keep himself in the present, to not dwell on a bunch of what-if's that haven't even occurred yet, and tries to focus now just on being locked down to the floor of the van, Sam jumping into the passenger seat up front, and Milla leaving to follow in her own car.

The ride to her place is longer than he expected, taking them out of the city and into a suburb with perfectly manicured lawns and wide streets and large houses. They don't know houses like this, have only been in them on hunts and never in their wildest dreams had Dean ever expected to live in one. And like everything else, it's a bittersweet realization that the opportunity has only come because of his physical needs.

He's never been out here, and hadn't really paid that much attention when Sam tried to describe things, so it's like seeing everything with fresh eyes. Dean tries to pretend that everything is normal, that it's common for him to be riding through a neighborhood like this on his way home. But he can't help the faint squeal of surprise when they pull into Milla's driveway and he gets his first look at his new home.

The house isn't huge, but it's large for one person, and far bigger than anything Dean can remember living in growing up. They're in the top driveway, but he can see where it goes down the hill and around to the back of the house, and he wonders if there's another garage back there. The whole front face of the house is red brick, 2 stories, with 3 dormer windows jutting out above the roof of the large wraparound porch. Two round, white pillars frame the broad steps in the front, but Dean can see where the right side of the porch railing has been removed and a long ramp now leads up to it from the driveway. It's there that Sam now heads, motioning for Dean to follow him to the front door.

"The builders thought it would be simpler for you to just access the porch from the drive," Sam says. "And they made the door wider so you can fit through more easily. It's electronic – goes with your environmental controls once we get that operational."

Dean notices the slight waver to his brother's voice, and the fact that – despite the conversation – Sam hasn't actually turned around to look at him since they got out of the van. Dean follows Sam through the doorway, quietly thanking Milla, who is currently holding the door open for him, and finds himself in the middle of an octagonal shaped entry hall with tall ceilings and polished wood floors. He relaxes his head against the headrest just for a minute in order to better see the ceilings, and spies an intricate glass chandelier high overhead. There are two doorways in the entry hall that lead to rooms Dean doesn't see, a set of winding stairs from another direction leads upstairs to a place Dean knows he will never go, and the final doorway leads to a long hall and more of the house. Sam doesn't stop, isn't giving Dean much time to take in his surroundings as he heads down the widened hallway to the back of the house.

At the end of the hallway is another set of doorways, or arches since no doors grace the frames, and Sam does slow down and at least offer cursory descriptions of those. To the left is the living room, which curves around and joins with a breakfast nook, a dining room, and then the kitchen, which can also be accessed from the doorway at the very end of the hall. To the right is an entrance into another foyer like area, into which Sam leads Dean.

There are two entrances here, one like the others, without a door, leads to a small sunroom and a deck off the back of the house. The other has a door, the first Dean has seen on his limited tour of the house.

"You'll have control of this one, too," Sam says as he opens the door and secures it against the inside wall before stepping aside for Dean to enter. "This used to be Milla's bedroom, but we had it fixed up for you." Sam's eyes go somewhere over Dean's head, flicker for a second, and then he's all business again. It doesn't take long for Dean to realize that Milla has followed them in and is staring wistfully at the two boys now in her care.

""You really didn't have to go to all this trouble for me," Dean says, turning around and facing the older woman. "We could have—"

"No, Dean, you couldn't have," Milla interrupts. "And more importantly, I couldn't have let you. I wanted to do this."

"But your bedroom?" Dean protests.

"The other rooms are upstairs. This was more practical."

The look she gives tells him in no uncertain terms that the discussion is over, and Dean relents, realizing that he really can't argue the logistics. It's not like he can just stay in a motel or just any apartment anymore.

He goes back to his exploration of his new room, unlike anything he'd ever envisioned for himself before. He's always been neat, and never had much in the way of extra 'stuff,' but despite the obvious equipment and supplies lining shelves and drawers around the room the place is really immaculate. The room itself is more than twice the size of his room in rehab, and it seems even bigger than that with the noticeable lack of extras. It's a straight shot from the door to the bed, enough distance between the two to fit two or three of his wheelchairs and still have room to turn around. The bed itself, he recognizes as one of those high tech sand and air mattresses, the one that he'd ordered Sam not to get because it was way out of their price range. But he knows that Sam feels differently about Adam's "donation" than Dean does, and he's been spending if freely ever since the transfer came through. He chooses not to say anything right now as he continues to take in the surroundings.

In the space between the wall and the bed is a stationary ventilator and the suction system, and the biggest wall unit Dean has ever seen with at least half of the ten outlets already being used. There is a cart on the side of the bed near the door, half of its surface filled with more equipment, and Dean assumes the drawers are filled with tubes and sterile supplies.

On the other side of the bed is a large, fluffy looking lounge chair that looks way more comfortable than the one Sam had slept in at the hospital. But Dean immediately finds himself at war over feelings of dread at the implications of that chair and feeling pleased that Sam thought ahead to the many nights he would likely be sleeping in Dean's room.

There is a dresser along the far wall, the surface area there as well as the three levels of shelves on the wall above it covered in more medical supplies. And tucked away in a corner is a canvas hammock hanging from a giant metal frame on wheels that Dean remembers briefly from the medical supply catalogs as a Hoyer lift. He also distinctly remembers the feelings of dread that had come over him at the thought of it. For whatever reason that lift, above everything else, made him feel inadequate and useless. Just the thought of being lifted out of bed by a virtual crane takes away the last of his feelings of humanity and leaves him wallowing in a sense of nothingness – as though he's become just an object and nothing more.

"I thought we agreed you weren't getting that." He shudders, remembering the few times at rehab when they'd used it. He prefers just being lifted out of bed – something in that just seems less permanent.

"It's only in case of emergency," Sam assures him quickly, crossing the room to stand between Dean and the dreaded contraption as though his physical presence alone will somehow make the thing disappear. "I will be here most of the time, but Milla was afraid she wouldn't have the strength to lift you on her own if she had to. It's just a precaution, Dean. Promise."

"Then get it out of here," Dean snaps. I don't want to look at it if it's just precaution. You can store it in a closet somewhere."

He tries to ignore the shared look that is exchanged between Milla and Sam, tries to pretend that their bond hasn't grown to something Dean isn't prepared to deal with. Yeah, he'd wanted Sam to forgive her, but that doesn't mean he's looking for the two of them to team up against them. "Sure, fine," Sam finally says hastily. "Just…come look at the bathroom. This thing is insane!"

_Just like that?_ Dean thinks as he grudgingly follows his brother to one of the two doors on the opposite side of the room. The other, he assumes is a closet. "Each door has a number," Sam explains as he pushes through to the bathroom. "So when the ECS is working all you have to do is say 'open door two' or something like that and the right one will open. We should have the company rep here by next week to get you all set up. I'm sorry it wasn't done before you got home."

"It's fine, Sam," Dean assures him. It's not like he's had all that much control over stuff at rehab – what difference will another week make? He takes a look around the bathroom, eyes widening as he realizes it's nearly as big as the motel rooms he's used to staying in.

"Milla asked them to enlarge it, so they added on to the space from the outside. What do you think?"

What he thinks is that it's too bad he will never truly enjoy it. The size, the luxury, it's something Dean has only dreamt of. A harem of buxom beauties, catering to his every whim as he relaxes in a bath full of rose petals and bath oils, feeding him chocolate covered strawberries and champagne and showering him with kisses and the gentle caress of soft hands massaging his tired muscles.

The bathroom is tiled floor to ceiling in a pale blue ceramic, the center of the floor sloping gently to a drain that can only mean the entire room is capable of getting wet. At the back side is a large, walk (roll) in space with a detachable shower head and hose, and a strange looking wheelchair made out of what looks like PVC piping sits within the boundaries. The space on the right wall is occupied by several cabinets and a sink, the space directly underneath completely open so he can drive the wheelchair right up under it. A large mirror fills the wall space between cabinets and several lights shower the area in soft, white lighting.

There is a toilet on the other side, and strangely enough, that's what chokes him up. It's actually been 4 months since he's seen a toilet, and the realization that he will never use one again, never experience that type of relief, is disheartening. It's a man's domain, his throne. Dean will never be king again.

"Looks great," Dean says, quickly steering himself back out into the bedroom as Sam follows, perplexed. Milla is there waiting for them, something akin to hesitant expectation sitting on her face as she waits for the verdict.

"Thanks for going to all this trouble for us," Dean tells her. It's a sincere statement, but still forced, bitter on the tongue and hard to express. His father raised them right, despite the man's many downfalls, and one thing he's taught his boys it to always be polite, always acknowledge those who have helped because you never know when you'll need them to come through for you again.

From the doorway, Sam nods his agreement as Milla's whole body relaxes. She smiles, relieved. "I know neither of you boys is willing to believe me, but you're honestly saving me as much as you think I'm helping you." There is no doubting the sincerity in her voice.

"Yeah, well, I think we all have a lot-- of healing to do. And many things to-- come to terms with." Dean crosses the room as he says that, making his way closer to the collection of supplies on the shelves. His voice is distant, more so than normal these days, as he continues to take notice of the changes in his life.

It helps that he doesn't have a before to compare the room to, that he doesn't have a past here to know what he's missing. All he knows is that his past is gone. Lost are the days of hotel rooms and carefree traipsing across the country, last minute changes in plans. In their place are schedules and meticulous procedures, a stasis in a town they have never called home with a woman they never would have known under different circumstances.

Adam's ruthless plan has changed everything, thrown him into a life he's never dreamed of in his craziest nightmares. The guy wants him to suffer, and Dean can't think of a better way to get back at the guy than to do exactly the opposite of what he wants. If Adam wants him miserable and devastated then Dean will just have to force the biggest smile he can possibly create and give the appearance of well-adjusted.

It's an improbable situation, will require a mindset he's not sure he possesses, means the best performance of his life. But Dean vows to do everything in his power to make it happen.

Adam will not win.

OK, so that's the end of Arc 1! Arc 2 will be called Reclamation, and will focus on Dean and Sam's healing at home and adapting to Daily life. It will also begin to explore ways for Dean to feel productive again! However, for you guys at I will continue to post under the Redemption page to make it easier (Because of the subject matter and the rating I just figured it would be easier not to make you guys search for a new story)

I'm going to take some time to work on the next two arcs and in the mean time will continue posting pictures to the "photo album" on a weekly basis. I'm also going to spend some time uploading my other fics onto LJ (sorry - no pics!).

Here's where I need your help... I have 3 options to posting the next portion of this story and I'm curious as to what people prefer. In case you couldn't tell, each of these chapters was made up of several smaller segments (I hate to call them drabbles because they weren't that short) that could potentially stand alone. They were essentially tied together to make a much longer chapter, but the individual segments is how I have them saved on my computer. So...

Option 1: I can post segment by segment as I write them as stand alone pieces. Most will be posted in order, but there is a chance I could post one piece for "November" and then go back and post something for "August." Although, I won't post any 'spoilers' within pieces until they have been covered by their specific story. These segments will go into the Master List based on a timeline and I won't post anything of the 3rd arc until all of the 2nd arc are posted. This option means at least something will be posted about every one to two weeks - sometimes more often.

Option 2: I can write a full "chapter" (about 5-6 segments) and post in order chapter by chapter as they are completed. This option means an average of one to three months between posts.

Option 3: I can complete the entire 2nd arc of the story before posting anything and then go back to my once a week postings as I did for arc 1. Based on my current schedule, I would expect about 9 months to a year before I complete an entire arc so I would probably be back to start posting some time in January of next year.

OK - give me your opinions on that. I, personally, don't mind posting WIP's - I just usually feel bad knowing people are waiting for me! If you can handle it, so can I. You can let me know through your reviews here or you can swing over to the LJ and actually click on your choice in the little poll at the end of the final part. Thanks for reading and have a great day!


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